


rely on certain certainties

by ProfessorSpork



Category: Frozen (Disney Movies)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Anxiety, Blindfolds, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Bonding, Christmas, Class Differences, Developing Relationship, Dorks in Love, Dreams and Nightmares, Dry Humping, Emotional Baggage, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Frohana (Disney), Gift Giving, Grinding, Growth, Hand Jobs, Hot Springs & Onsen, Ice Bros - Freeform, Kink Exploration, Kink Negotiation, Light Dom/sub, Literal Sleeping Together, Love Bites, Marking, Mental Health Issues, Miscommunication, Oral Sex, Panic Attacks, Premarital Sex, Premature Ejaculation, References to Depression, Safe Sane and Consensual, Scratching, Sex Is Fun, Sharing a Bed, Sleep Sex (sort of), Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:56:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 106,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27673012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfessorSpork/pseuds/ProfessorSpork
Summary: “That’s okay; I prefer you in leather, anyway.”Or: Somewhere between “I could kiss you… may we?” and “Queen Anna of Arendelle,” Anna learns how to take control, and Kristoff learns how to give it up. Innuendo intended.(A canon-to-canon piece charting the evolution of their relationship, their family, and maybe even the country.)
Relationships: Anna/Kristoff (Disney)
Comments: 239
Kudos: 207





	1. love’s not a thing you get; it’s work and tears and sweat

**Author's Note:**

> Happy first anniversary of _Frozen 2!_
> 
> Once upon a time, exactly one year ago, Anna made a passing comment about leather and the internet went _oh my god, Anna’s a top._ And I went “hmm, is she? Maybe I need to convince myself.” It was supposed to be a quick little five times fic, just a small mental exercise. Instead it has turned into a sprawling behemoth about every thought Kristoff and Anna ever had between _Frozen_ and _Frozen 2,_ and I looked up a lot of true facts about ice harvesting, among other things. This fic will get explicit fairly quickly and will explore a mild D/s dynamic; I'll put content warnings at the top of each chapter in terms of what one can expect. 
> 
> To put it plainly: this work is about sex. But far more than that—mostly, even—it is about love, and trust, and learning how to take delight in surprising yourself, and the unfamiliar security of being seen and known.
> 
> A tremendous debt of thanks goes to my incredible girlfriend and beta theseerasures, who endured countless hours of dithering over historical accuracy notes that will matter to no one but me, and approximately eight hundred conversations that began with me saying, "Okay, so I'm Anna" to explain my thought process.

The first time she and Kristoff ever kiss—after she blindfolds him, after he lets her lead him through the market with nothing other than trust in her hand in is—he asks for permission.

“I could kiss you! … I could—I mean. I’d like to. I’d… may I? We me… I mean. May we? Wait, what?”

It’s not until later, when she’s giving Elsa the play-by-play of what she said, and what he said, and what he did, and what she did, for probably the eight thousandth time (Elsa, Anna is rediscovering, is very patient), that it really sinks in for her. That he didn’t just swoop in and take what he wanted. That he waited. That he checked.

Huh.

In every book Anna’s ever read (and she’s read, y’know, a _lot),_ True Love has always been, above all else, predictable. Like—like crocuses in spring, or arithmetic. Available Damsel plus Dashing Hero equals Kiss; to ask would be to spoil the mood. She frowns. Are they… doing it wrong?

“You’re making a face,” Elsa chuckles softly, and Anna schools her features into something a little less conspicuous. “What is it?”

“Nothing, just... was I being too bossy? Maybe I should have just let him kiss me.”

“You did let him kiss you,” Elsa points out, clearly not seeing the problem here.

“No, but. It had to be a whole big thing. It wasn’t…” Anna searches for the right word. “Easy. Natural.”

Elsa shrugs, but her smile is shy, and weighted with feeling. “I think those things come with time,” she murmurs, and—that’s never how it was in the stories, but admittedly, probably the lesson here is that Anna should rely a little less on what she thinks True Love is supposed to be and a little more on the way people actually treat her.

It’ll be a project.

* * *

So, fine.

Kristoff treats her like a princess.

“You are a princess,” he retorts, often, when she points this out, often.

But that’s not what she means. He doesn’t immediately defer to her opinions; doesn’t bow and scrape and simper. At least half of the time, he acts like a sarcastic, grumpy brat to everyone, her included. (“It’s part of his charm,” Olaf offers guilelessly when Kristoff gets into an argument with Kai at dinner over whether the staff should call him ‘sir,’ and Anna laughs so hard Chardonnay comes out her nose.)

But as days turn into weeks, and even as Kristoff’s _sometimes-I-casually-crash-here_ bedroom in the guest wing becomes the place he’s sleeping more often than not, he hovers on her periphery. He never initiates anything, no matter how much time they spend together. He never grabs for her hand, or leans in for a kiss, or winds an arm around her waist as they walk through the market. She’s always the one who has to be first to reach out and touch.

And once she realizes, it kind of starts to become the only thing she sees.

It’s so subtle she hadn’t even noticed, at the beginning. She’d just been grateful to have anyone to reach for at all, grateful to bask in the once-familiar warmth of Elsa’s attention, and the novelty of Kristoff’s. Grateful to have people accept her invitations and advances, for once, instead of brushing her off or ignoring her or leaving her alone.

But one by one, things start to add up.

Every morning, Kristoff waits for her at the foot of the stairs, and walks her to the dining room for breakfast. The first time he ever did it, she’d playfully offered up her hand—like he’d kiss it, like it was an introduction at court. He hadn’t, but—of _course_ he hadn’t, that’s not Kristoff’s world. She’d laughed at herself for her error, even as he’d taken her hand, awkwardly, and entwined their fingers, and held on until he’d pulled out her chair for her. And that had been fine, had been sweet, even, but… every morning she pauses at the bottom step, enjoying that last moment of height, of being just as tall as him. And he smiles at her, and he waits. And if she pecks him on the cheek, he grins and blushes, and if she kisses him softly, he kisses her back.

But if she does nothing, he does nothing, and she knows, because she’s checked. For four days in a row, she smiles and breezes past him, and all he does is follow behind. Like it makes no difference to him either way.

It makes a difference to her.

It’s Elsa who points out he might be nervous in his new role as suitor when they’re from such different walks of life—and that makes sense, Anna can wrap her mind around that. But none of the things she does to reassure him seem to help. Reminders about which pieces of silverware to use when leave him flustered and stammering, and she’s lost count of how many times she’s tried to gently correct his posture. (To be fair, if she were as big as he is, she might want to be less conspicuous, too—she knows that he hates standing out, even though she can’t really understand why. He’s the most interesting person in almost every room he walks into; doesn’t he know he’d stand out either way?) She asks him questions, as many as she can think of, about where he came from and how he grew up and what he likes. And if the answers are _not sure_ and _alone_ and _ice,_ well. She can handle that.

Because he’s wonderful. He’s so gentle with her, and hilarious, even when he’s not trying to be, and—and he thinks _she’s_ funny, which is a particular head rush. It’s been a long time since she’s been able to make people laugh, and she doesn’t know what she’d do if she lost that again.

(Or, well. She does. She knows exactly. She knows four languages fluently and eleven different ways to play solitaire and every romance trope in the books; she knows the particulars and provenance of all of the portraits on the walls and exactly how many freckles she has—347, at least as of spring. She could know more; there’s room. But she doesn’t want to _have to_ anymore.)

So she chases that feeling, amplifies it, does everything she can to remind Kristoff of just how lovable she is. Only she can’t help but wonder if maybe that’s the problem. She knows she’s… a lot, sometimes. Knows there’s inevitably going to be a limit to how much Kristoff can take, going to be a day where he thinks _okay, that’s it, I’ve had enough._ But she has no idea where that line is, and all of her attempts to narrow it down just leave her more confused as he maintains the careful distance he’s created between them.

Which, in her darker moments and on her (thankfully less common) worse-for-wear days, kind of makes her wonder if—if maybe he’s not that invested because he’s _not that invested._ Maybe it’s not kindness, or propriety, or nerves at being suddenly thrown into the upper class. Maybe he doesn’t actually like her as much as she likes him, and all he’s doing is reciprocating when it’s convenient. Taking advantage. Leading her on.

It makes her feel… on edge. Desperate, a little. Like she’s powerless; like she’s still trapped in a locked room, waiting for someone to love her back to life.

She hates it.

And she doesn’t mean to let it show, she tries to keep her smile on and power through it, but it scares her—the idea of losing him when they’ve only just found each other. She hears the most ridiculous things come out of her own mouth, petty digs and passive-aggressive comments she can tell get under his skin. And she wants to stop, but can’t help but feel a thrill of vindication at it, too. Let it bug him. Let him be the one itching with it, for once, this feeling like things could topple over at any minute.

(“I think you’re making a problem where there isn’t one,” Elsa ventures after dinner one night, having watched Anna spend an entire evening embarrassing herself playing hard-to-get with someone who seems determined not to chase after her.

 _Whatever._ What does Elsa know? “So I’m making mountains out of molehills,” Anna grumbles, putting words in Elsa’s mouth because apparently she can’t content herself with pushing away just one person in an evening.

Elsa looks hesitant, then screws her face up with resolve. Like she’s psyching herself up to talk. “There aren’t even any molehills,” she asserts. “You’re just… tripping over your own two feet on perfectly even ground.”

“Well, that certainly sounds like me,” Anna concedes, aiming for self-deprecating but landing further south of bitter. And then Elsa pulls her into a side-hug, thoughtless and big-sisterly, like it’s nothing, and Anna bursts into tears.)

Somehow, despite all of that, it still takes her by surprise when things finally come to a head.

* * *

So she’s been having nightmares lately.

It’s not a big deal. She’s not a _child;_ she can handle it. But she puts a lot of effort into getting the most out of each day as it comes, into spending time with Elsa and getting to know the citizens and ~~pestering~~ entertaining Kristoff, which means that she hasn’t really left a lot of room for, like. Processing. Which would be fine if anyone had actually bothered to tell her brain that, but instead it stubbornly insists on reflecting upon the last month whether she’s awake for it or not, leaving her dreams disjointed and frightening—full of sharp ice and dark nights and doors slammed closed. She wakes up shivering at all hours, fighting against every instinct she has to get up and find company. Because—it’s absurd, and unnecessary. She’s been sleeping alone for an awful long time; there’s hardly any need for that to change _now._ Not when she already has so much.

But her latest dream—it throws her. Because _she’s cold, she’s so cold, and he’s everywhere but close to her, back to the couch as he spouts seemingly-benign nothings that cut into her like knives, and he won’t even look at her, why won’t he **look** at her, but then he does, only it’s whiskey-brown eyes and Kristoff’s voice and “if only there were someone out there who loved you” and he won’t touch her, he’ll never touch her and she’s alone and—_

It would have been fine if Kristoff had been waiting for her at the foot of the stairs in the morning, like he always is.

But he isn’t.

She’d _planned_ on going on a stroll with him down to the schoolhouse, to play with the children. Awed as they are every time the princess visits and spends time with them, it’s Kristoff they really love—the way that, if they needle him and ignore his fake-complaining long enough, he lets them ride tall on his broad shoulders; the way he unabashedly gets down on his hands and knees and makes braying, playful animal noises as he chases them down, shrieking laughter. It’s a side of him Anna hardly ever sees, outside of overheard conversations with Sven and the one time they visited the Valley of Living Rock. But that had been—well, her mind had been on other things then, obviously.

But he isn’t waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, and he never shows up to breakfast. Elsa hasn’t seen him; Olaf hasn’t seen him. He’s nowhere—not in his bedroom, not in the marketplace, not at Hudson’s Hearth.

No… instead, she finds him in the stables. Readying Sven’s tack and packing his gear.

“Are you… going somewhere?” Anna asks, hating the strange way her voice comes out.

He jumps, surprised. “Anna! Way to sneak up on a guy.”

“I’m not _sneaking,_ I live here.”

He goes back to what he was doing. “Almanac says next month is supposed to be a real scorcher; I figure if I can get high enough up the North Mountain, spend a week or so really building up my supply, I can be set almost through fall.”

A stab of fear clutches at Anna’s heart—he _is_ leaving, he’s _leaving her_ —but she doesn’t let it win. Instead, she turns her attention to the tiny, flickering flame in her gut telling her she’s allowed to be annoyed about this, and fans it; lets it turn to anger.

“A week,” she repeats faintly, processing. “Were you planning on letting me know?”

He blinks at her, baffled. “I was gonna say goodbye, yeah.”

“Great. Goodbye.” She turns to walk out.

“Hey, wh—” he huffs. _“Anna.”_

“Was there something else?”

“No, but. You’re being weird.”

She stares at the loose straw on the floor. “Well there you go. You can escape into the mountains and live your life and never have to deal with my weirdness again.”

“Is that a promise?” he asks, teasing, clearly trying to lighten the mood, but it lodges like ice in her heart. _(She’s annoying. She’s a burden. He tolerates her at best.)_ It must show on her face, because his expression softens immediately. “Anna, hey, that was a joke—”

“Don’t worry about it. You don’t owe me anything. Come back whenever,” she says, forced casual. “Or don’t.”

His features cloud over. “Wait. Are you—mad at me? Seriously?”

“Take a guess!”

“I’m not going to play games with you. If you have something to say, you can come right out and say it.”

“Fine. I don’t see where you get off leaving without breathing a word to anyone. It’s—it’s ungrateful, is what it is. After all we’ve done for you, you’re just going to traipse off?”

The clouds of his face are approaching a full-on thunderstorm. “Excuse me?” he asks in a low growl. Sven anxiously scuffs and stamps inside his stall, staring back and forth between them in distress at the mounting tension; Anna ignores him.

“Poor Kristoff,” she mocks, putting on a voice for him: _“My life is so hard, getting a room in the castle and a brand new wardrobe and top-of-the-line equipment. I’d better skip town.”_

“Skip town?” She can tell by his tone that she’s struck a nerve. Good. “This isn’t some vacation, Anna; it’s what I do. Some of us actually have to work for a living. I don’t expect you to know anything about that, but you know what? Yeah. Maybe I don't want all of these things just handed to me. Maybe they’d actually mean something then.”

 _(She means nothing to him.)_ “So sorry to have afflicted you with the terrible burden of _nice things,_ ” she sneers.

“I don’t want your _stuff,_ Anna! And you know what? News flash: not everything is about you!”

“Stop talking to me like I’m some spoiled—”

“What? _Princess?_ You are one!”

—child. She was going to say child.

“And believe me, I’ve gotten the message,” he continues. _“Stand up straight, Kristoff. What did your parents do, Kristoff?_ You think I don’t hear it when you laugh at me? It’s humiliating! So excuse me for wanting to get away for a few days and do something I know I’m good at. Excuse me for not thinking I needed to check in with you before doing my job. Y’know, the one you had to _title me_ for before we could even be seen together in public.”

He might as well have slapped her. “Do you really think I’m that shallow?”

“You tell me! You’re the one who said I only spend time with you for what it can get me.”

“You wouldn’t be the first!” she blurts.

He rears back, stung. “Don’t. Don’t compare me to him, that’s not fair—”

“What else am I supposed to think?” she stutters, placed on the defensive. “You don’t—you don’t touch me, not ever, you don’t kiss me or hug me or hold my hand; not unless I start it. You’re just _here,_ and now you don’t even want to be that anymore.”

“So I’m trapped here, now?”

He’s being as gentle as she thinks he knows how, voice mild and goading, but it sticks in her craw all the same. Anna knows what it is to be trapped here; he’s got no idea. Not a clue. “I don’t think it’s a lot to ask,” she says, through gritted teeth, “for you to give me a heads-up if you’re going to disappear.”

“It’s not. And I’m not. But, Anna… you _didn’t_ ask. You never ask. About any of that stuff—the kissing, the—whatever. Why didn’t you just…?”

The festering thing inside her, the bubbling, fizzing brew of anxiety and doubt and lingering betrayal boils over: “Because I shouldn’t have to ask! You should just know. If it were true love, you’d just _know.”_

She regrets it as soon as it’s out of her mouth. His face falls; she watches as heartbreak flutters across his expression, only to be replaced by a cold, distant absence of feeling. Blank. “Well. Maybe it’s not, then.”

“Kristoff—”

“Forget it,” he mutters, turning and heading for the door. “If you want a mind reader, then I’m not your guy. So why don’t we do ourselves a favor and stop pretending like everything’s working when clearly, I’m not good enough for you.”

But that’s not what she—this is the last thing she’d— _no._ No, no, no, no… She runs, scrambling to catch up with him, then passes him entirely and throws out her arms, blocking his access to the door.

“Kristoff, hold on, I never said that. I—stop, please, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it—”

“But that’s the thing,” he says, and he doesn’t even sound angry anymore, he just sounds—sounds _exhausted,_ and _sad,_ and that’s so much worse. “You did. So just—move, Anna. Please. Let me go.”

She can’t. She won’t. She never should have let it get this far. Everything inside her is screaming not to let him leave this room; that if she lets him walk away now, it’s the last she’ll ever see of him. He tries to get around her; she steps with him, blocking his way once more.

“Anna—”

“I’m _sorry!”_ she bursts out again, and—oh no. She’s crying. He’ll never take her seriously if she’s crying; she’s ruining this. “I just—I always do this, I need too much, and it pushes people away, and—”

“I don’t care about any of that,” he argues. “I just don’t understand why it’s _so impossible_ for you to _tell me_ what you want!”

“I want you!”

“You have me! I’m right here!”

“I don’t want you to go; I want to stop feeling like everything’s going to fall apart if I don’t hold it together. I’ve spent my whole life settling, and I want—I want—”

 _“What?”_ he demands.

“I want it to be perfect!”

The word echoes starkly off the wooden rafters.

Anna takes a deep breath and plows ahead. “Everything’s been so hard, for such a long time, and I just—I’m so tired, Kristoff. I just want one perfect thing. Is that so wrong?”

Kristoff looks at her—deep-down looks at her—and it’s like all the fight goes out at him, all at once. “No. It’s not.”

His agreement makes her feel wrong-footed somehow. “…It’s not?”

They stare at each other, seemingly at a mutual loss.

“…Let’s sit,” he suggests, only to look around and realize their options are fairly limited: a single low stool by the stalls, and a pile of hay in the corner. Mouth twisting, he walks around to the side of his sled and climbs in, then offers a hand to her to help her up. Against her better judgment, she lets him hoist her into the seat, but releases his hand as soon as she can and is careful not to sit too close to him as she settles down. Leaving room between them. If he wants it.

His voice is quiet and serious when he apologetically murmurs, “I’ve never made you cry before.”

“Oh,” she says. Not sure if she’d realized. She wipes idly at her cheeks, clearing away the moisture. “Yeah, well… big emotions. Kind of comes with the territory, if you’re… me. It’s okay.”

“It’s not.” He scrubs a hand through his hair and rubs at his neck, clearly thinking hard about every word before he says it. It’s still new for her—this kind of consideration. It’s been a long time since anyone’s taken so much care with her; there hasn’t been anyone around to. “I’m… I’m not gonna do great if the bar is perfect. I wish I could be, for you, but—it’s not in the cards. I’m not a prince; I’m not storybook romance guy. Most days, I’m barely even person guy. My best friend is a reindeer. I’m not good at—at reading signals, or at subtext. I need you to tell me how I’m doing. What you need from me. Otherwise, I don’t know. If that’s gonna be a deal breaker, then maybe…” He doesn’t seem to want to end that sentence. She doesn’t want him to, either. He takes a different tack: “All I can do is love you, Anna. That’s what I’ve got. So if that’s not enough for you…” He sighs. “I don’t know what else to do.”

She blinks at him, feeling as though someone has shoved a crowbar through the clockwork of her brain, its delicate gears grinding to a sudden, crunching stop.

“You… love me?”

He’s never said that before. Not in as many words. And it’s not like she didn’t _know_ (didn’t she?), she’s not surprised, this is her definitely not being surprised, it’s just… well. Knowing Kristoff loves her and confirming _Kristoff_ knows he loves her are two very different things. And, as it turns out, hearing Olaf say it and hearing it from Kristoff himself are also two very different things.

(Having it not be life and death, that probably helps. She doesn’t _need_ him to love her, he just—does. Apparently. And that’s. That’s _something,_ alright.)

He turns bright pink. “I—yeah. Anna. _Yes._ Of course I do. I thought that was obvious.” He groans. “See, this is exactly what I mean. We’re clearly not on the same page. I never know how to just _talk_ to you, or what’s allowed and what’s not, and clearly you’re still nervous about talking to me, and… oh. Hi.”

He’s taken the fact that she’s decided to slide into his lap pretty well, she thinks. His arms go around her automatically, his broad, warm hands spanning whole widths of her to keep her firmly in place.

“See, but this is exactly what I’m talking about,” she says, draping herself around his neck and pressing her forehead gently to his. His eyes fall shut. “You _do_ know how to be romantic. That was the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah, because it was an _accident._ I don’t know how to do that on purpose. I don’t even know what it is I said.”

“You love me,” she reminds him, and he laughs.

“Yeah. I love you. It’s weird.”

She frowns. “Excuse me?”

His eyes fly open. “Oh, jeez. Not that—not that _you’re_ weird, but I mean, you _are,_ but not. Not in a bad way, it’s a good weird, I like it, but I—”

Okay, maybe he knew what he was talking about when he said he’s bad at this.

“Kristoff.”

It’s quiet for a long moment as he figures out whatever it is that’s on his mind. “I never thought I’d love anyone, is all,” he eventually admits.

“Wait, what? _Why?”_ That’s got to be the saddest thing she’s ever heard. “And also, that’s not true. You love Sven, and your troll family, and…” She can’t help but beam at him. “And me.”

He shrugs, shifting uncomfortably beneath her. “I mean like… romantic love. It always just felt… I don’t know. Far away. Like something other people got to do. Not something that was meant for me.” She must look horrified, because he hurriedly adds, “Not because I thought I was unlovable, or anything! More that it just seemed like such hard work. Getting to know someone, having to change your whole life to make room for them. I was happy alone; no one I’d met ever seemed worth the effort. No one ever clicked.” He smiles at her, soft and tentative. “And then I met you.”

“Well, I love you, too,” she says, and she wishes she could capture the look on his face in this moment, could turn to it and replay it over and over and over again, like a music box. Wind it up and watch his face come alive like a flower in the sun. Or maybe she’s mixing her metaphors again. He’s _beautiful_ , is her point.

Then, his expression of wonder morphs into a sly grin. His fingers press in on her—tickling her, just a bit. “Yeah. And you’re _still_ hard work.”

“Hey!” she yelps, trying to twist out of his grasp, breaking into peals of laughter. It’s absurd; for all that he’s been avoiding touching her, he seems to know exactly the right places to run his fingertips to make her squirm and giggle. “Kr-Kristoff, cut it out!” He eases up on her, and she settles back into his embrace, catching her breath. She knows he was joking, mostly, but… well. Just in case, she adds: “I’m sorry. That I’m—hard work.”

She wants him to deny it, or take it back. Instead, he gives a carefree shrug. “A little hard work has never scared me,” he says simply, like—like it’s not a problem, if she’s a problem, sometimes.

It fortifies her. “Me neither,” she says with as much conviction as she can muster, and her heart rises and fills like a hot air balloon at his responding fond grin.

“Yeah. I know. And—I’m… sorry, for making it sound like I didn’t, earlier. I don’t think you’re shallow, or spoiled, or any of that stuff. I just. I want to be the kind of person you deserve. ”

“You are, Kristoff, you’re—I’m so sorry I made you think you aren’t. I just got so in my own head. I know I should’ve talked to you about it instead of picking a fight. It’s only… my parents…” She bites her lip. “It’s not just fairy tales. My parents, it was like they _could_ read each other’s minds. I’d say something, and they’d look at each other, and it was like they just _knew._ They were always so in sync.”

“They were married for years and years. We’ve got time, Anna,” he says. Swallows. “I mean. If you want it.”

“I do!” she insists, and then realizes she’s just said _I do_ when he’s mentioned marriage, and grimaces. She can feel her face burning with her sudden blush. But then he smiles at her again, that sunlight smile, and she buries her face into his neck, overcome. She breathes in the scent of him as his arms tighten around her; he rocks the two of them back and forth, and it’s ridiculous, how soothing it is.

“I wasn’t gonna leave,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “I mean I was, I was gonna go cool off, and I’ve still got to go into the mountains, but. I wasn’t gonna leave you. I wouldn’t.”

Her brow furrows, recalling their earlier words. “You’re not trapped here. You could go, if you wanted to,” she says, her voice coming out smaller than she’d intended.

“I _don’t_. I’m exactly where I want to be, okay? I just, uh. I’m gonna need your help to figure it all out, is all. I have no idea what I’m doing.”

That seems reasonable. She can’t ask him for more than he knows how to give. But still, the doubts niggle at her, in the back of her mind.

Which he won’t know unless she tells him.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, either. This is all new to me. And… I know maybe it’s not fair, but. I guess it feels like if I have to ask for it—for what I want—it doesn’t… count?” There’s a loose thread on the button hole of his shirt, by his neck; she picks at it, to avoid looking up at him. She feels him hesitate before he presses a quiet kiss to her temple; lets his choice shore her up. “I spent so many years knocking on Elsa’s door, begging her to spend time with me, and it never made any difference. I’m just. I’m so tired of having to ask. It makes me feel…” Pathetic. Weak. Unmoored. “…like a little kid again.”

“I don’t think it’s childish,” he murmurs into her hair. “I think it’s brave.”

“…Really?”

“It’s the first thing I ever admired about you. The way you just go after the things you want. I don’t know why it should be any different when it’s me.”

“Sometimes a girl wants to be swept off her feet,” she grumbles.

He rolls his eyes. “I’m an ice harvester, Anna. You’re the princess. I can’t just—have my way with you. That’s not how this works.”

“Well, the way it works is _dumb.”_

“Kind of above my pay grade, feistypants.”

“Then I’ll have to take it to the Queen. I have an in with her, you know,” Anna jokes.

And he laughs, and he kisses her. And it feels like they can leave it there, for now.

* * *

Kristoff should have known that one heart-to-heart wasn’t going to be enough for Anna.

She’d been gracious and playful when he had actually left for his harvesting trip, full of good humor and ready affection and promises that she’d be _fine, Kristoff, honestly,_ and he’d headed into the mountains letting himself think maybe it would be that easy.

And in some ways, it has been. She’s been genuinely better about being honest with him, talking out her thought processes, and catching herself when she’s accidentally pressing his buttons about ‘proper’ behavior. But he’s been back for days now, and things are still… off. She’s a good sport about it, or she’s trying to be, but it turns out Anna’s not great at masking her emotions even when she’s putting literally all of her effort into it. He notices, now, in a way he didn’t before—how every time he pulls back instead of touching her, she gets this pale, anxious look on her face. How her eyes dart to his hands, sometimes, when they’re just sitting quietly together; as though he’s liable to do a magic trick any minute now and she doesn’t want to miss it when he does. The soft, disappointed sounds she makes when he doesn’t.

He wants so badly to be everything she needs, so he takes himself out of his comfort zone. He tries. Only when he does, he only seems to make it worse—his every attempt to take her off guard, to woo her like she’s said she wanted, ends in disaster. She either startles and jumps or she freezes, and then trips over herself in apology, which isn’t necessary, but does tend to ruin the mood, and then they’re back where they started.

“It’s just so frustrating,” she confesses to him one night, applying an ice-filled handkerchief to the bridge of his nose. (After he’d played _Guess Who?,_ covered her eyes from behind, and dropped a kiss behind her ear, only for her to spin around and punch him instinctively in the face. After she’d apologized profusely over his insistence that he didn’t need ice, her tiny fists could not do much damage to his very hard head. After she’d led him to the cellar next to the kitchens and gotten him ice—his own ice, that he’d brought back for her himself—despite his protests.) “I don’t know why I’m _like_ this.”

He has his guesses—about Elsa, and Hans, and how getting hurt like that enough times could leave a girl gun-shy. It’s inevitable, probably.

But the idea that she might be scared of him, of the things he might do, is torture.

“You’ve been through a lot,” he says, frowning at the slightly nasal whine his voice has taken on. “I don’t take it personally, Anna. It’s natural to want to protect yourself.”

“I _don’t._ I don’t want to protect myself from you. I want to—surrender? No, sorry, that’s weird. To, um. Open the gates and lower the drawbridge and… establish firm diplomatic relations,” she says, stumbling over the words in her haste to be understood. She smiles a little, helpless and winsome. Knowing how she sounds. Trusting he’s charmed by it.

He is.

“Okay, so. How do we do that?”

The smile turns into a grimace as distress creeps back into her features. “I don’t know.”

“Alright,” he says. “That’s alright. I can wait.” He’d wait an awful long time for Anna, if she asked him to.

“I just wish I had someone to talk to about all of this,” she frets. “But I can’t go to Elsa because she’s—busy, obviously, but she’s also never had a, a _person,_ like you. So even if she _could_ help, I don’t want to, I don’t know, rub it in her face? And I can’t ask the staff, they’re _staff._ It’s not their job to hold my hand through my stupid drama. And I just wish—” She wipes at an eye, looking more frustrated with herself than sad. “It’s so silly, but. I wish my mom were here.”

“Oh, sweetheart…” he murmurs, before he can think about it, before he even realizes it’s what’s going to come out of his mouth. He braces for awkwardness, but Anna doesn’t seem to mind; she even manages to give him a half-hearted, watery upturn at the corner of her mouth. It’s just… his heart aches for her. He longs to pull her into his arms and hug her until everything else goes away. “I know it’s not the same, but. You can talk to me. I may not always say the right thing, but—my ears work, I can listen. Last I checked, anyway.”

She considers this.

“I just… it feels like everything’s gone off-script,” she admits. “Ever since—well, forever, I guess, but especially after my parents died—my life was supposed to go a certain way. There was a plan _._ And it’s all just totally off the rails now. And I’m _glad_ it’s different—I love spending time with Elsa, and I’m so lucky I didn’t end up running off with—” She swallows, hard, and Kristoff finds himself clearing his own throat in sympathy. Like his windpipe’s full of wasps. “—y’know, the first guy I met who showed an interest. But now…” For whatever reason, she can’t bring herself to meet his gaze. “I have no idea what’s going to happen next. I don’t know what to expect. Everything changed so fast, and it feels like there’s nothing I can do about it.”

He reaches up, gently removing her hand and the ice bag from his face so they can look at each other properly. “If it scares you to feel like you’re not in control, then _take control._ If the sleigh’s not going where you need it to, you don’t wait for someone else to take the reins. You grab the reins yourself. I know you can do it because I’ve _seen_ you do it. Literally,” he adds with a chuckle, to soften the intensity of the moment. “It’s not—cheating, or immature, or whatever. It’s not.”

“How about pushy? Or emasculating?”

“I think I can take it.”

She surges forward then, her small hands on his cheeks, her hungry mouth on his. He hisses when their noses collide; she breaks away, already halfway to an apology, but he cradles the back of her head in his palm and pulls her back in, swallowing it down. Desperate to show her how he feels, in a way she can understand.

If the way she kisses is any indication, they’re starting to get on the same page.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And off we go! Updates are going to be weekly on Sundays. I tried to complete this work before posting but I'm, uh, 132k in and counting with no end in sight, so... that didn't happen. I've built up a pretty big backlog of chapters, but it's possible updates will slow down in a few months if I haven't caught up to myself. But that's future us's problem!
> 
> Chapter title from "What Do You Know About Love?" from Frozen on Broadway, which seemed an appropriate place for us to start.


	2. give way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New content labels for mild miscommunication, dry humping, hickeys, and bed sharing. Enjoy! ;)

Wanting, Anna has found, is a curious thing.

In the past, the phantom lovers she’s taken as she’s let her own hands wander herself have been heroes of a thousand faces: pirates and rogues, handmaids and artisans, sweet princes and chivalrous knights. It was never the person or even, frankly, the gender that mattered so much as the _story,_ before—the narrative of being whisked away into a whirlwind romance with someone whose every thought is of her. Only now that she has it, she finds she… doesn’t know what to do with it?

Kristoff stars in her every fantasy—the warm, strong grip of his hands; the sweetness of his voice, when he thinks no one is listening. His sense of humor. But confronted by the solid reality of him… well, sometimes, she falters.

It’s just that there’s a distance she does not know how to travel, between her head and her hands. A destination she can see, but has no idea how to reach. The _idea_ of intimacy intoxicates her; his clumsily sweet tangible attempts leave her reeling and unnerved, dissociated from her body and baffled at her brain. The trust she feels in her heart cannot seem to sway her shot nerves. Her limbs _react_ without her permission.

She feels—tender, she supposes is the word. Like a fountain overflowing with affection, and like a healing wound, all at once.

Which is all to say that the first time she feels him get hard, she kind of has a panic attack.

They’re out in the middle of nowhere when it happens, picnicking in a shady clearing just up the mountain path. It had been a perfect day; they’d shared lunch, and he’d even caved and played his lute for her before dessert. And then there’d been a smudge of chocolate smeared against his upper lip, and she’d gone to kiss it away, and she’d maybe climbed into his lap a little bit, for leverage, and maybe her hands had snaked up under his shirt to feel the warmth of his skin, the curl and release of his abdominals, the tickle of the hair on his chest, and then there’d been, just— _kissing,_ a lot of it, and—

And now she can _feel_ him, under her, and it’s like she can’t breathe. It’s too _soon,_ she doesn’t know what to do, she can’t…

She tries to scramble off of him, but he holds her firm, protesting: “Hey, don’t go.”

“I’m sorry, I just—I’m not ready—”

“S’fine,” he all but growls into her mouth; she can feel him smirking. “I don’t need you to be ready.”

“What?” she chokes, because—there must be something she’s missing, he wouldn’t, he’d never—“Kristoff, _stop.”_

He moves so fast it’s like he’s spring-loaded, his vice grip on her vanishing at her words. She lurches backwards, but her hands are still under his shirt, pulling him with her; he tumbles forward with the force of it. Even when she manages to get her hands out, their legs are so entangled Anna can’t get free of him.

She feels dizzy; she can’t quite get her bearings.

“Are you okay? I’m sorry, I’m such an idiot.” His eyes are wide and terrified. “I didn’t mean—I was only trying to say that… you didn’t have to stop on my account. I was just going to ignore it. Like always.”

“H-huh?” she stutters, trying to get her breathing under control.

He tries on a smile, hesitant but warm. “It’s not like this has the first time I’ve gotten… uh, excited, by being around you. It’s—not important. I thought you knew.”

Her world tilts sideways. She certainly did _not_ know. “What?”

“It’s no big deal. Nothing’s changed, okay? Nothing happens unless you want it to happen.”

But she’s spiraling, now, so all that does is channel her panic in a different, equally unhelpful direction.

“Don’t you want me?”

He stares at her, then down at his crotch, deadpan. She flushes.

“I mean—aren’t we supposed to be…?” She tries to find the words. To voice the doubts she’s been quietly wrestling with for weeks now. “…I don’t know. Slaves to our passion, unable to keep ourselves off each other?”

His thumbs draw soothing circles over her knuckles. He’s making that face—that _you read too many books_ face he and Elsa both make, sometimes—but he has the good grace to not say it. “But you don’t feel like that.”

“No, but—”

“Do you want _me_ to be like that?”

“No, but—”

“Then cut it out,” he says, and the amount of disdain he manages to imbue just those few words with throws her for a loop. “I’m not interested in _sex_ with you.”

“…oh.”

“No, wait, I—that came out wrong. What I mean is—I’m very interested in sex with you, but I—” He makes a squeaky, helpless noise at her expression, and wrenches his fingers from her grip so he can bury his face in his hands. “I’m interested in _you_. So if that means we wait, until you’re ready, or until we’re married, or whatever it is, then—fine.”

“You… want to get married?”

“Oh, for—” he mutters. It looks like he’s trying to claw his face off. _“Anna.”_

_“Kristoff,”_ she mutters back, and finds herself surprised to hear the warmth of laughter in her voice. She’s not frightened, not anymore, this is—this is _cute._ “Kristoff, look at me.”

He peeks through his fingers to blink at her cautiously.

“I’m _interested_ in you, too. Even if, if this—” she gestures vaguely between them, at the way their legs are still entangled, the space between their hips, “—scares me. You don’t scare me.”

“I don’t?”

“I promise.”

Slowly, he puts his hands back down; wraps hers up in his own. “Okay. Good.”

She can’t help but bite her lip, doubt bubbling up. _“Is it_ okay? That I… if we…?”

He ducks his head, the fall of his bangs making him look young and bashful. “I never expected any of this. So however far we go, it’s… I don’t know. It’s like a gift.” And this is the gift he always gives her in return, so thoughtlessly it takes her breath away: his honesty. So long as she remembers to ask.

(And maybe that’s what she should have taken away from her romance habit all along—not the tropes and clichés, but the simple fact that just because a book won’t speak aloud to you doesn’t mean you can’t read it. You just have to open it, first. You have to put in the effort.)

“I _do_ want you. Or I—I _want_ to want—” She swallows. Tries again. “I spent so long waiting to be close to people. And I had a long time to… imagine what it might feel like, I guess? And then it happens, and you’re near me, and it doesn’t feel like that at all. It’s—overwhelming. I’m just so scared I’ll mess it up, and it’s like I’m drowning, it’s just, so _big,_ and—” She cuts herself off when she hears him snickering. “Are you seriously laughing at me right now?”

“Sorry, I’m sorry, it’s just.” His eyes flicker back down to his lap. “You said it’s big.”

She bats at his chest. “You’re incorrigible.” But there’s a mirthful light in his eyes, laughter he’s clearly holding back, which makes _her_ laugh, and then they break into a mutual full-on giggle fit. It lasts so long her sides ache—every time one of them manages to calm down, they get good look at the other’s face and the laughing begins anew.

“Sorry,” he says again, after several long moments of catching his breath, and he schools his mouth back into something more serious. “You don’t have to figure all of this out by yourself, you know. I’m right here with you.”

“That’s the part that freaks me out.”

He can’t quite mask his crestfallen expression at hearing that. “Right.”

“Not that—I know you’d never hurt me, and that you’ll stop when I say stop, but I don’t—” She takes a shuddering breath; she’s saying this all wrong. It’s not that he’s intimidating, it’s that… “It’s just that you _see_ me, when you look at me,” she explains. “That’s the part that… I don’t want to disappoint you. And I don’t _want_ to say stop. I want to get past this, this whatever-it-is and just _be_ with you. I want to be good for you, for everything to just be…”

“Perfect?” he guesses. She nods. “Anna, we talked about this.”

“I know, but—”

“And I _like_ it when you tell me what you’re feeling. What you want. I like not having to guess.”

“Even when I’m telling you ‘no?’”

He mumbles something she can’t make out.

“Sorry?”

“I said—maybe especially then,” he forces out, barely above a whisper.

…Wait, what?

“Really?” she asks, even though she knows she’s not imagining the flush of red in his cheeks, at the tips of his ears. He means it. She just doesn’t understand… “Why?”

“I—don’t take this the wrong way, because you _are_ strong, Anna, I know how strong you are, but. You’re so _small.”_ He plays with her hands in his, and she can’t help but see what he means. His grip encircles her wrists and then some; like he could swallow her whole. “I don’t want to hurt you. And when you set limits, I know I won’t. I can’t. And knowing you’re safe with me—”

“Of _course_ I’m safe with you—!”

“—that’s… a good feeling. The best feeling. Because… well. I don’t want to disappoint you, either.”

She feels tears welling up in her eyes, and pointedly refuses to blink, hoping they’ll just be re-absorbed somehow if she stares long enough. She doesn’t mind. Kristoff is nice to look at. “I love you a whole lot, you know,” she says, a discernible warble in her voice.

He smiles at her. “Yeah. I know. Likewise.”

* * *

Anna wakes with a start, surprised to find she’s thrashed so much in her sleep that she’s turned herself around completely, her head dangling half-off the foot of her bed. The details of her dream still flash behind her eyes— _stumbling forward in whiteout conditions, the blizzard whipping all around her, she’s not fast enough, she’ll never be fast enough_ —and she groans and sits up, rubbing the heels of her hands against her closed lids as if she could grind away the images.

It doesn’t really work.

When she was very small, she knows, she and Elsa had shared a room. Back then, it had been common for her to slip out of the covers and shuffle on bare feet to her sister’s bed, crawling in without a second thought if she’d had a bad dream. And after, when Elsa was gone, well—her parents were only just down the hall, and all too happy to cuddle. Eventually, she’d felt too old for it, but still found herself making the trek to their room at all hours of the night. She’d curl up on the chaise longue in their sitting area and let the sound of their breathing lull her back to sleep, soothed by the presence of other people around her, by the knowledge that she wasn’t alone.

And then… she had been.

She pulls her blankets tight around herself and flops back against her pillow, trying to get comfortable.

She could go to Elsa’s room right now. Elsa would let her in if she knocked; would be glad to see her. But she’d also blame herself for Anna’s nightmares, and make a whole _thing_ of it, and she’s got enough to worry about as it is. She’s got a whole kingdom to run; she needs her rest.

Kristoff would be scandalized if she knocked on his door, in that adorably sweet way of his. She closes her eyes and lets herself imagine it: how nervous he’d be, stepping aside so she could come in. How he’d keep his distance until she asked him to hold her. How warm his arms would be around her; how safe she’d feel next to him. How he’d blush and nod when she requested to share his bed. How he’d feel, pressed against her between the sheets. She hugs her own arms, and imagines, and imagines, until she can’t take it anymore.

She’s in her dressing gown and out the door before she can second-guess herself.

The halls are dark and quiet, and it’s not hard to slip through them unseen. The stairs would creak under her weight, so she bypasses them entirely—sliding down the banister with practiced ease. The guest wing is past her room, deeper inside the castle, and she gets herself as far away from it as she can.

Her destination isn’t far. It’s warm and dry inside the stable, patches of moonlight filtering through the upper windows; she grabs a sturdy woven blanket off the back of Kristoff’s sleigh and heads for Sven’s stall. The reindeer blinks sleepily up at her as she slips inside the door, spreads her blanket out next to him, and settles against his flank.

“Don’t mind me, pal,” she murmurs, and he gives a judgmental little huff, like— _what am I supposed to do, ignore you? I was sleeping._ “Yeah, I know. Sorry.”

She runs a hand through his surprisingly soft pelt and buries her nose in his fur, breathing deep. The scent is weirdly soothing, for all that he definitely smells, y’know, like animal, and his stall won’t be cleaned out again until morning. But maybe that’s to be expected; every association she has to this smell is of safety, and opportunity, and Kristoff.

Her head rises and falls with Sven’s every inhale and exhale. She wonders how many times Kristoff has fallen asleep like this, huddled against his best friend for warmth.

“You’re very comfortable,” she compliments, and Sven nickers, smug. _Obviously._

She closes her eyes, and attunes herself to the soft noises of his hairy body, and talks. “I’m not sleeping too great these days,” she whispers, and flinches a little as the words hit the air, as though they’ll cause an earthquake and the walls will collapse all around her, just from having said it aloud. But everything stays the same. The room is filled with the breathing of horses, and Sven is calm and gentle against her, and she’s still here, and everything is fine. “It’s not a new thing, really—I get down sometimes—but… I guess I thought it’d stop when the gates opened? And it hasn’t. It’s almost worse. And I feel so guilty about it because—what do I have to be upset about _now?_ Everything worked out. We won. I’ve got Elsa back, and Kristoff now, and Olaf, and—” Sven brays, offended, and she laughs. “—yes, and _you,_ I was getting to that. Best for last, you know,” she says, and he settles, appeased. “I don’t want them to think they’re not enough. I don’t understand why they aren’t. I mean—they are. They have to be. I’m not lonely anymore, so it doesn’t make any sense why I still… I don’t know. The problem must be me, right?”

Sven rolls over without warning, throwing her off-balance. He glares at her from his new position on the floor, but the image is so endearingly canine—fluffy white stomach, legs gangling in the air—that she laughs again. “You don’t agree?” He shakes his head, huffing. “Then what am I supposed to do?”

He knocks a hoof into her shoulder, hard enough that her hands slide out from under her and she topples into him. The answer is unmistakable: _lean on us, idiot._

“But what if I tell them and nothing changes? Or what if they think I’m weak? Or weird?”

He rolls his eyes and looks around them—the stall in the barn in the middle of the night. _You’re talking to a reindeer; you **are** weird._

And yet, she realizes as she sinks into his four-legged pseudo-hug, she feels better already. So—fine, then.

There’s really nothing more to do than give him a well-earned belly rub. “Thanks, buddy. You’re a good listener.”

She sleeps peacefully when she returns to her room, and in the morning Kristoff wrinkles his nose when he meets her at the bottom stair.

“Who are you, _me?”_ he jokes. “You smell like a barn.”

“It’s not polite to tell a lady what she smells like,” she informs him primly. She winks, and he rolls his eyes, and they walk to breakfast together.

* * *

They’re in the library, this time.

Anna _had_ come in for a legitimate reason—Olaf has been not-so-subtly alluding to the fact that he wishes he could read, and she’s certain her old primers are in here somewhere—but then Kristoff had started obnoxiously reciting aloud from one of the racier books from the romance shelf, trying to embarrass her. And Anna… hadn’t gotten embarrassed.

“Someone’ll see us,” he groans into her mouth as she wraps her arms around his shoulders, trying to pull him down to a more convenient height.

“Let ‘em,” she says between kisses, enjoying the fact that he started this and now _he’s_ the one all flustered.

“But, Anna, I—c’mere,” he laughs, walking backwards and tugging her along until they’re hidden away in a secluded corner of the stacks. He pulls her flush against him as his back hits the wall, and she can feel him—his—

“Already?” she jokes weakly, trying to hide her nervousness. “I didn’t even do anything.” _There’s nothing to be scared of,_ she reminds her racing pulse. _It’s just Kristoff._

He brushes his nose against hers; smiles against her lips. “Must’ve been the book.” Seeing as the book in question is about a torrid affair between a dressage champion and a simple ranch hand and is comprised almost entirely of disturbing-in-hindsight equestrian sex euphemisms, she doubts it. “All those whips and harnesses. And—” he waggles his eyebrows, _“—barns._ ”

_“Kristoff,”_ she complains, and his playful expression drops away as he gives her a concerned once-over.

“Hey. You okay?”

“Fine, just—it’s all a little—” She smiles helplessly. “It’s a lot, actually.” How much she feels for him. How she doesn’t feel big enough to contain it all, like she might explode with it, and wound him with the shrapnel of her too-big wanting. And then he’ll see that’s all she is, just a pile of wreckage left over from her stupid _feelings,_ and—

He runs his hands up and down her arms, soothing. “It’s like we talked about. You’ve got the reins; I’m just a passenger.”

“A-are you—?”

“I’m sure. In fact—I want to hear you say it,” he goads. “‘I’m Anna, and I’m in charge.’”

She swallows. “I’m Anna, and I’m in charge,” she echoes weakly. Just barely making sure it doesn’t sound like a question when it comes out.

“Well you don’t sound much like royalty if you’re just repeating everything I say,” he smirks.

Her eyes narrow. She throws her shoulders back and stomps her foot and tries to mean it. “I’m _Princess Anna_ , and I’m in charge.”

“Okay, Your Highness,” he says, and—there’s an unexpected little thrill of warmth up her spine at his tone she doesn’t know what to do with. Weird. “What would you have me do?”

Her mouth feels dry. “I—um. Kiss me? More?” she ventures, internally wincing at how authoritative she’s failed to sound. But then he’s kissing her, just like she wanted, better than she wanted, deep and slow, and she gives herself over to the sensation. It’s honestly a bit unfair, how good at this he is. How easy it is for him to make her feel like she’s on fire, like she’ll never be cold again, like she’s never felt cold in the first place.

(And like—she knows he’d been kidding around before, with the novel, but she can’t deny that there’s something… really satisfying about this whole situation. About being here, with him, doing this. Feeling this way. A decade’s worth of daydreams finally being paid off, with interest.)

His hands come up to cup her face, and the tender touch of his callused thumbs on her cheeks drags a needy whimper out of her. She rises onto her tiptoes, seeking leverage as she pulls away from his grip, aching to be closer. She can’t get him quite how she wants him.

“Stop being so tall,” she grumbles into his skin as she settles, instead, for his more-accessible neck. His throat and the underside of his chin are unexpectedly soft; she explores the area with teeth and tongue.

“I-is that, um,” he groans, fighting to keep ahold of himself, “is that an order?”

Distracted, barely listening, she presses a kiss to his clavicle. “Sure, why not? —Whoa!”

With no more warning than that, he grabs her by the hips and braces her there as he sinks to the floor, then guides her down until she’s straddling his lap. It’s exactly what she wanted—up on her knees, with him beneath her, _he’s_ the one forced to awkwardly crane his neck to get the right angle to kiss her back. And she can just tilt her head down, easy as anything.

“Perfect,” she mumbles, recapturing his mouth, and he makes this happy, satisfied little hum at her praise she’s not sure she’s ever heard before.

She’s very determined to hear it again.

Their kisses turn hot and heavy as his hands leave her hips to roam the small of her back, the edges of her ribs, her thighs, her ass, her waist. She longs to return the favor, but doesn’t dare move her hands from the broad expanse of his shoulders; she can barely keep her balance as it is, giddy and disoriented as he’s making her. The room might be spinning. Is the room spinning?

“Hope not,” he chuckles, and she flushes. She hadn’t realized she’d been talking. “S’fine,” he says, “s’cute.” Only belatedly does it register that he’d only give that response if she were _still talking._

“Oh, for—can’t you shut me up?” she groans. Half teasing. Half begging.

Turns out, he can. All at once, he does this amazing thing with her tongue and brings a knee up to settle between her legs, pushing with just the faintest angular pressure. Every word Anna’s ever known promptly falls out of her head. Her eyes roll back and her hips roll forward, all without any input from her whatsoever.

She’s never been this turned on before in her life.

Part of her wants to stay like this forever, gliding on the edges of her desire, enjoying the feeling of being taller than Kristoff as long as she can. But her knees are starting to hurt, holding her up against the cold stone floor as they are, and she needs—more. Than this. No longer able to ignore the way she aches for him, she slowly lowers herself back down, reacquainting herself with the topography of his lap as he rearranges his legs to accommodate her. Frankly, the mere fact of his erection is enough to send her pulse into a tailspin. Her heart hammers, pounding in her ears. Which: at least her heart is still _working;_ she’s just about given up on her brain. She can’t _think._

Still, she gives communicating a shot, on purpose this time: “I don’t—I don’t think I’m ready to, um, take care of—”

“That’s okay,” he gasps, and she can tell he’s trying, trying to be strong and sturdy for her, but his pupils are blown wide, his kiss-bitten lips red and swollen. He’s breathless. “Tell me what you _do_ want. Anything you want; anything.”

Her head rushes at his reverent tone; she writhes against him, grinding down on his thigh. “Touch me.”

“Where?”

“Here—hold on, I’ll—” She fumbles with the stays of her bodice, intensely grateful that she picked one with front-facing laces this morning. She impatiently bats his hands away when he tries to help; his fingers are too large to pick at the tiny knots, and regardless, she wants them on _her_. With a bit of effort she’s able to pull her bodice halfway open, nothing but the thin fabric of her blouse between those strong, massive, wonderful hands and her chest. “ _Touch_ me,” she says again.

He does.

To be honest, Anna’s never spared much thought to her breasts—has never found them particularly large or particularly sensitive, and was altogether happy ignoring them in favor of more expedient routes to her own pleasure. That, she’s now realizing, was a mistake. She feels like she’s melting into Kristoff’s caress, like she’s being poured out of herself and into whatever shape will fit in his palms. She’d like that, she thinks. To be the thing that fits him perfectly.

And then he starts kneading at her nipples, the pinpoint pressure of his thumbnails acute even through her shirt, and she stops thinking entirely. She arches into it, pressing against him, desperate for more.

“Anna, your heart is _pounding,_ ” he says; not the suggestive growl she’d been expecting, but a murmur of genuine concern. He shifts his hands, left palm opening wide to feel the jackrabbiting of her heart against her ribcage, his right drifting up to the hollow of her chin to get a more accurate read on her pulse. He leans back to get a proper look at her, ignoring the way she chases his mouth in an attempt to keep kissing him. “Do—should we stop? Do I really make you that nervous, still?”

She can’t stand that look on him. Like she’s fragile. And his _hands…_ “No. Yes. Shut up,” she whimpers desperately, crashing her mouth into his and wrapping her fingers around his wrists, physically readjusting his grip until it’s back where she needs it. How to explain…? “I want this. Please just kiss me.”

Obediently, he gets back to what he was doing, sinking a little lower into the floor to adjust the way she’s perched. The slide of his muscular legs against her core has her moaning into his mouth, rocking wantonly against him. He’s good at that, she realizes. At coaxing these noises from her, mewling little gasps of pleasure she’d had no idea she could make, seemingly without even trying. It’s just—it feels so _good._ She’d never known another person could feel so good. Smell so good. Taste so good.

Hers. All hers.

She throws her head back, unable to split her concentration between maintaining their kiss and riding his thigh any longer. Undaunted, he presses kisses down the column of her throat, sucking at her skin, nipping at her still-jumping pulse point. The gentle sting of his teeth zips through her, frantic, sloppy, exquisite. Her hands reach up to tangle in his hair, holding him fast against her. He makes an _amazing_ noise when she gives an experimental tug; her hips jerk arrhythmically in response as she tries to pull herself impossibly closer to him any way she can.

“Is it—can I—?”

“Yes,” he says, his voice strained and husky. “Please.” Giving her permission without thought, when she doesn’t even have a clue what it is she’s asking. Ready to give her whatever she asks, and only what she asks. No more, no less.

“I’m so close,” she breathes, and she can _feel_ his smile against her neck, for just the briefest of moments.

He nuzzles against her. “What do you need? What can I do?”

“Nothing, just—stay—” She’s almost got it, almost there, the right angle, the right pressure, the right—

Her body goes taut as a bowstring and _resonates,_ like it’s been played. Harmonies ripple through her. She cries out, tears springing to her eyes with the sheer relief of it, and all but collapses against him, shaking. Kristoff pets her hair, murmuring soothing nothings.

“Wow,” she says, when it feels like her brain has firmed up a little from the mush he turned it into.

He kisses her forehead. “Yeah.”

“I’ve never…” she swallows. “Not with anyone, before.”

“Scary?” he asks.

She blinks. She’d gotten so swept up in it, in _him,_ she’d kind of forgotten to be scared.

“No,” she admits happily. “No, not at all.” It suddenly occurs to her that these things are generally expected to be mutual; she scrambles off his lap, not wanting to hurt him if he’s—sensitive. “But what about you, are you—?”

His smile is pained and embarrassed in equal parts. “It, uh, kind of took care of itself,” he mutters sheepishly. Sure enough, when she looks down there’s an evident wet spot darkening the front of his trousers.

“Oh, _Kristoff—”_ she squeaks, biting back what are certainly _very_ inappropriate giggles. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“It’s fine,” he says, brusquely but genuine enough. He gets to his feet, then offers her his hand to pull her up, too. It’s a welcome offer; her legs are… a little wobbly, admittedly. “Just—maybe help me find some books to take back to my room?”

“You want to read now?” she asks dumbly, only catching on as soon as the question is out of her mouth. “Oh. _Oh!_ Of course.” Together, they find a few heavy, good-sized tomes, which he carries low against his hips, hiding his newly-acquired stain.

They’re almost out the door when he yelps “Anna, your _dress,”_ and she hastily does up the stays of her bodice.

“Good?” she asks, hoping she doesn’t look too disheveled.

“Beautiful,” he says, a dopey smile on his face, and she feels her cheeks pull into a matching one.

She walks him back to his room and waits patiently outside while he changes into a fresh pair of pants. It’s only there, her forehead resting against the cool, painted wood of his door, that she realizes what she’d said to him earlier.

_What do you need? What can I do?_

_Nothing. Just stay._

(It’s hours before she catches a look at herself in the mirror, before she sees the delicate trail of darkening marks painting the side of her neck. It fills her with a satisfaction she can’t quite describe—something sharp, and fierce. With edges. _Good,_ she thinks. _Good._ )

* * *

The first time Anna sees him with his shirt off, it’s an accident.

It’s been an unseasonably warm fall—something she’s been teasing Elsa about, actually, which feels overdue and revelatory in equal measure. Every embarrassed smile she’s able to pull with a “Jeez, Elsa, when you realized _love will thaw,_ I didn’t think it would be forever,” or a “Are you sure you don’t have heat powers?” feels like a hard-fought victory, and the time she’s spending with her sister in general is a great balm for the fact that Kristoff’s making harvesting trips much more often than he says he usually would.

Which is why she hadn’t been expecting to see him as she passes by the stables on her way into town, and why she certainly hadn’t been expecting to see quite as much of him as she does.

“Anna!” he beams, continuing to haul supplies off his sleigh and sort them into piles. His fur-and-leather tunic and thick woolen sweater are draped over the passenger seat, which answers one question but leaves her with many, many others. “Hey, sorry, I know this is probably a big no-go in Kai’s rulebook, but I was boiling in that stuff and the sooner I get everything unloaded, the faster I could see you. Elsa’s not going to have me arrested for indecent exposure, is she?” he jokes. When Anna doesn’t say anything, a look of worry crosses his face. “…Uh oh. Is she?” he frets.

“I—you, um—” Anna’s mouth doesn’t seem to want to work the way it normally does. She swallows once, and then again; does she usually salivate quite this much?

There’s just. So much more of him than she was prepared for. She can’t help herself, eyes roaming over the planes and angles of his stomach, the slope of each muscle weaving into one another, the way the fine hair on his chest catches the sunlight. His _shoulders._ She could write sonnets about his shoulders.

“Anna?”

With effort, she manages to snap her jaw shut; she wishes she had any idea how much time she’s just lost drooling over him, because she’s pretty sure it’s way, way longer than what could be considered polite. “Yep?”

“You good?”

“I want to sleep with you,” she blurts, then freezes. _Oh no._

“Um,” Kristoff says, understandably. “What.”

“Just—just sleep! With you,” she scrambles, like that helps at all. She’s been thinking about it a lot lately, admittedly, but she was supposed to bring it up in _private,_ when the moment was right. Not in broad daylight where anyone could hear her because she’s lost her mind over his bare chest. “Because… I think I kick, maybe, and I definitely snore, and it feels like you should. Know. What you’re getting into. If—not that you’re getting _into_ anything, I—”

“Do we have to discuss this now?” he asks, saving her from herself. She can see just how far down his blush goes, his skin flushing with embarrassment past his throat and partway down his chest. It’s—wow.

“Sure don’t!” she squeaks, squeezing her eyes closed far too late to help either of them. Sven whickers, laughing at her. “We can definitely talk about this later. Or never! We also never have to talk about this ever again. In fact, I’m gonna stop talking about it right now.”

She lets out a quiet noise of surprise at the feeling of his lips pressing a kiss to her forehead; she slumps into it, suppressing the urge to run her hands up his body now that she knows how close he’s standing.

“It’s not a never,” he murmurs, drawing a smile from her. “But maybe we should table it until I’ve got the rest of my clothes on, at least.”

“Probably for the best,” she concedes.

(He’s good to his word, though, and over the next few days they start to hatch a plan. _One of your schemes,_ her dad used to call them—not that Kristoff makes her think of her _dad,_ or anything, or not—well, not like that. It’s just that. As nervous as Anna is about the whole thing, she can’t deny how good it feels to have a co-conspirator for once; someone to bounce ideas off of, and point out possibilities she hasn’t considered, and let her know when she’s going too far. It’s… really, really nice. She could get used to it, if she lets herself.

She thinks she’d like to.)

* * *

Elsa knows for certain something is up when Anna starts complaining of a headache after dinner.

She’s been acting strange all week, furtive and faux-chipper in the way she gets when she’s hiding something. Twice, Elsa’s walked into a room to find Anna and Kristoff conferring quietly, only to spring apart with guilty expressions at the sight of her. She’s not sure what’s changed; they’re not actually acting any more or less suspicious than they always do, except for the fact that they appear to have finally realized that other people might notice.

And now, apparently, Anna has a headache.

“Sorry to cut out early,” Anna says, already standing up and nervously pushing her chair in. “I just. Don’t think I have the appetite for dessert when I feel like this.”

_That’s_ a new one. Elsa raises an eyebrow; in her peripheral vision, she notes Kristoff busying himself with his napkin, unfolding and refolding it compulsively.

“But it’s chocolate torte,” Elsa points out. “You love chocolate torte.”

“See, I _do_ ,” Anna admits, sounding genuinely pained, “but unfortunately dark chocolate is, y’know. Bad for. My migraines. That I get.”

“Right,” Elsa says, trying not to draw it out too long the way she wants to in her head— _riiiiight._ “Well… feel better?”

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll be right back to normal by morning,” Anna stammers, then beats a hasty retreat.

Elsa turns to Kristoff, who looks like he’s trying to blend in with the dinnerware. “Did you know she gets migraines?”

“Oh, uh—yes? I mean. No? That is. She mentions, sometimes. That her head hurts. Uh. The normal amount. Oh, look, it’s dessert!” he exclaims in relief, as someone from the kitchen enters with a tray.

They start to eat in heavy silence. Kristoff only lasts about two bites of torte before he, too, stands up.

“You know what? I think I’m going to go check on Anna and then turn in early,” he says. “So if you don’t see me later it’s because I’m in my room, asleep. And there’s no need for you to check on Anna, because… I’ll have already checked on Anna. So. Goodnight!” He all but flees from the table, fast-walking conspicuously to the door like he’s reminding himself it’s dangerous to run on ice.

Elsa hopes for all of their sakes that the two of them haven’t had sex yet, because—if _sex_ can’t mellow them out, she doesn’t really have any other ideas. And if this is what they’re like _after,_ all three of them will be dead before forty from high blood pressure.

She treats herself to their servings of torte, thinking it a small price to pay for their subterfuge.

* * *

Anna’s already in bed, undoing her plaits, when Kristoff slips into her room. She’s snuffed all the lights except the candles on her side tables, just in case Kai or Gerda came to see if she was alright.

“How’s your headache?” Kristoff asks, voice warm and teasing, like they’re getting away with something.

She bites her lip, trying to hide her smile. Playing to their imaginary audience. “Terrible. I think I’ve just gotta sleep it off.”

“Maybe… some company would help?”

Her grin breaks through despite her best efforts. “Couldn’t hurt.”

“Okay then. Be right back,” he says, swinging by her trunk to grab the pair of pajamas they’d stashed there days ago before heading into the ensuite to change.

She fishes the book she’s been reading out of her nightstand drawer and flips it open to have something to do with her hands. (So it doesn’t look like she’s just sitting around waiting for him, even though that’s obviously exactly what she’s doing.) Her whole body feels jittery with anticipation; she doesn’t know what to do about the tingling in her palms or the way her heart can’t seem to decide on a rhythm for more than a few seconds at a time. Which is silly, because it’s not like she hasn’t slept next to Kristoff before. They’d camped out on the North Mountain, chasing Elsa, and there have been more than a few afternoons where they’ve ended up napping together after tiring themselves out doing whatever ridiculous thing she’d planned for them.

This feels different.

She can’t bring herself to look at him when he comes back and slips under the covers beside her, carrying a book of his own.

For long minutes they sit and read together. Or—maybe Kristoff’s reading, at any rate. Anna’s mostly staring at the same page’s she’s _been_ staring at for what feels like ages now, eyes tracing the same sentence over and over again to no avail. She wishes she could just enjoy this, this little domestic pantomime they’re putting on, but she can’t put the real reason they’re together out of her mind long enough to do that.

Eventually, Kristoff marks his page and puts his novel aside.

“Should we get the candles?” she asks.

“Sure.”

With the candles blown out, there’s nothing but the moonlight through the window to reveal their awkward shuffling as they each get comfortable. He’s being careful not to touch her, she can tell, and it kicks her brain into overdrive. Should they snuggle? Why didn’t she plan any further ahead than this moment? She’d assumed it would be instinctual, that they’d curl up together naturally and find all the places they fit and that would be that. _It’s always like that in the books_ , she thinks ruefully, annoyed at herself.

“Well, um. G’night, Anna,” he says, and she cringes.

“Yeah. Goodnight.”

_Just go to sleep. Forget it and go to sleep._

But she can’t. She’s wide awake and wired now, hyperaware of his every shift and sigh, the body heat slowly leeching off of him and into the sheets. She’s terrified, suddenly, of disturbing him, of being the thing that throws off his schedule and denies him his rest.

She squeezes her eyes shut and wills her doubts away. It’s absurd to be nervous _now._ They love each other. He’s given her an orgasm, for heaven’s sake. She should be past this.

But she’s hounded by her thoughts. What if she has another nightmare and has a total meltdown about it and he realizes she’s more trouble than she’s worth? What if she does snore and kick, and Kristoff hates sharing a bed with her? Or, what if she doesn’t, but she has to get up and use the bathroom in the middle of the night, and her moving around wakes him up, and then he can’t get back to sleep, and then he resents her? Or worse, what if that happens only then she does fall asleep, only to snore and kick him while he lies awake, exhausted? What if he cuddles with her and she gets too hot and rolls away and he feels rejected? What if—

“I’m nervous,” Kristoff confesses, interrupting her hyperventilating.

—wait, what?

“…You are?”

He turns to look at her; she rolls over onto her side, too, so they’re face to face. He’s grimacing. “It’s just—what if _I_ snore? What if I roll over and crush you? What if I smell bad, or get terrible morning breath? What if—”

He doesn’t get to voice any more _what ifs,_ because Anna smothers them with eager, grateful kisses. An arm comes around to pull her closer, and—there, now they’re touching, bodies flush under the covers. She stretches languidly against him, enjoying the press of his limbs against hers.

He runs a hand through her hair as they pull apart, foreheads together. “You too, huh?”

“You have no idea.”

He huffs out a knowing little chuckle. “This isn’t gonna work if neither of us can relax.”

Not for the first time, or the fifth, or the hundredth, Anna finds herself intensely wishing that her mom were here to talk to. Her mom, who radiated a kind of tranquility Anna’s never understood or found anywhere else; who accepted everything without judgment or complaint. No, not quite that. She _found_ acceptance, she forged a path to it, making the effort. She accommodated. She would know what to do; she’d—

Well there’s an idea.

“There is one thing we could try.”

He raises an eyebrow, an outrageously provocative glint in his eye. “Oh yeah?”

She knees him in the hip. “Quiet, you. It’s a trick my mom used to pull when I was little, when I got all stubborn and insisted I wasn’t sleepy.”

“I bet that was cute,” he says, and he _means_ it, even though he’s teasing, and her chest flutters obnoxiously at his affection. She stuffs the feeling back down. “Okay, let’s try it. What do I have to do?”

“Well—this, mostly,” she says, demonstrating the move on him—drawing her pinky slowly down the slope of his forehead and the bridge of his nose. His face scrunches a little as she pulls away, like it tickled.

“That’s it?”

“Yeah. Until I drop off.”

“Sure, alright.” They rearrange until he’s on his back, her head cradled against his shoulder. She settles in, and he gently begins running his finger down her face. “How’s that?”

She’s not sure what to say. It’s—nice? It feels good, definitely, delicate and loving, but not… not calming, like she remembers. Not mesmerizing. Maybe she’s outgrown it. Or maybe…

“Okay, I lied,” she admits. “There’s another step.”

“Okay…?”

“You’re not gonna like it.”

He laughs, low and soft. “Try me.”

“You have to… um. Would you sing to me?”

She can _feel_ him blushing; the heat of it traveling all the way to his chest, through the fabric of his night shirt. “It’s the only way, huh?” he asks after a long moment, sounding comically stoic and put-upon.

She nods, solemn. “Afraid so.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, thinking about it. “Does it matter what I sing?”

Her heart soars. “I dunno,” she says, trying to play it cool. It’s probably weird to be this thrilled about getting your boyfriend to agree to sing to you. “Don’t think so. Just something lullaby-y.”

“Lullaby-y,” he echoes, amused. “Sure. Here goes.”

He clears his throat, and then—tentatively, at first—launches into a peaceful melody Anna’s never heard before. He sings about the wind in the trees, and animals bedding down for winter, and the turn of the seasons. He sings about surrender and serenity, the sweet tenor of his voice more soothing than any lyric could be.

And then he reaches up and trails a single finger down her brow, and Anna relaxes so completely she has to tuck her head closer into his chest, almost dizzy with it. He does it again, and every drop of tension she’d been carrying in her muscles melts right out of her like candlewax, solid to liquid at nothing more than his touch.

She’d forgotten how good this felt.

Every draw of his pinky, from her crown to the tip of her nose, feels like it’s pulling an anxious thought right out of her brain and releasing it into the air, over and over, leaving her blissfully blank in their wake. He lets out her worries one by one until there aren’t any left, until the inside of her head is finally, _finally_ quiet save for the tune of his song. It’s getting hard to keep her eyes open; her blinks grow longer and blearier as the repetitive motion of each downward stroke of his hand encourages her eyelids to follow, to go down, and down, into the warmth of Kristoff’s embrace.

She thinks maybe Kristoff asks a question, and she thinks maybe she answers it, but she’s not sure.

Anna sinks, and sleeps.

The nightmares don’t touch her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kristoff's lullaby and the chapter title inspiration are one and the same-- "Give Way," from the musical Dogfight.
> 
> If the phrase "simple ranch hand" did not jump off the page and send you into a memory spiral to fandoms past, I encourage you to go read [the greatest ask box request vs fill O Henry twist of all time](https://rubdown.tumblr.com/post/96679031284/lirry-simple-ranch-hands). And while you're on tumblr, [come say hi to me](https://professorspork.tumblr.com/)!


	3. a state of mind I want to be in like all the time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content labels for hand jobs and grinding; content warning for initiating with a sleeping partner without explicit prior consent (though the act itself is consensual).

Being with Kristoff is kind of addictive.

It’s something Anna’s always known, but she feels it all the more acutely now. Now that she knows what it’s like to wake up in his arms, spread-eagled and drooling and hopelessly twisted in the bedsheets, and have him smile at her like she’s not the most mortifyingly disgusting person on the planet. Now that she’s had the full force of his gentlest side turned on her.

It’s like—hunger. Like being so busy all day you forget to eat, only to sit down at a feast and realize at the first bite that you’re _starving,_ that you’ve been starving for ages and you didn’t even notice, and now you can have your fill.

She looks at Kristoff, and her mouth waters.

* * *

As fall begins to make way for winter, Kristoff can’t help but marvel at how different his life’s become. Normally at this time of year he’s adding the last pieces of insulation to his cabin in the mountains for the season, spending his days splitting firewood and gathering the supplies he’ll need to sustain himself if he gets snowed in. It’s a lonesome, private time, usually—just him and Sven and the wind for company.

This autumn, he’s only been to the cabin once, and it was to board up the windows to protect the glass until spring. It seemed silly to pretend he wouldn’t spend the winter in the warm, protected, _staffed_ castle—even if it does mean further to travel on harvesting trips. The look on Anna’s face when he’d told her, though, had been classic Anna: instantaneous, complete elation, hurriedly tamped down upon in an attempt to look cool and composed. Like he’d want to stay less if he knew how glad she was to have him around.

Ridiculous.

Things that used to be wholly unremarkable are _events_ with Anna. When a kitchen sow gives birth, Anna insists upon naming every single piglet—somehow, she can discern each of them by sight. (“Don’t talk about Henry like that!” she’d objected, when he’d dared refer to the smallest of the litter as the runt. _Henry._ Honestly.) Any night on which the aurora is visible is practically a party, Anna staying up late watching her window like it’s a theater proscenium, which is nothing compared to how she acts when she discovers—

“It’s _snowing,_ ” Anna squeals, breathless and awed one November afternoon as she slides into the dining room on stocking feet, interrupting what had been his quiet lunch with Elsa. She looks eagerly between them, like she’s expecting them to gasp and cheer. “Elsa, did you—?”

“Don’t look at me,” Elsa laughs. “I had nothing to do with it.”

“Well come on, come _on,_ ” she says, grabbing Kristoff’s hand and yanking him out of his chair down the hallway with her. Elsa smirks after him over her raised teacup; he glares at her. Traitor. “We’re going to miss it!”

 _Miss it._ He literally harvests ice for a living; he couldn’t miss snow if he tried. Still: “What are we going to miss, exactly?”

“It’s the first snow of the year! Everyone knows you have to catch a flake on your tongue the first time it snows every year to ensure a white Christmas.”

“We have Elsa; we can ensure every Christmas is a white Christmas.”

“That’s not the point! And that would be cheating,” Anna objects, pulling him towards the front doors. He puts up the tiniest bit of resistance, halting them in their tracks—chuckling as she plants her feet and _heaves,_ trying to move him any further. “Ugh! Why are you so heavy?”

“It’s rude to ask a gentleman about his weight,” he sniffs, and he could swear her eyes actually sparkle at him.

“Very true—my apologies, good sir. Now come! On!”

He lets her drag him outside.

* * *

They’d stayed out in the fresh, powdery snow for hours, playing with Olaf and the neighborhood children—inventing games and making snow angels. (“It’s a _Snowlaf!”_ she’d exclaimed proudly at Olaf’s first attempt, before bracing her mittened hand over Kristoff’s mouth to stop him from pointing out the obvious. “What are you, allergic to fun?” she’d hissed in his ear, and he’d said _yes_ and she’d enlisted all the kids in an ill-conceived snow war to change his mind. The flakes had caught in her hair and lashes, the late dusk sun shooting fiery gold through the braid wrapped around the crown of her head and down the loose tresses, and he’d gotten so distracted staring at her that Birgitta Angstrom, the milliner’s daughter, had absolutely annihilated him with a well-aimed snowball to the face.)

Afterwards, Anna’d insisted upon cocoa when they’d tromped back inside, ignoring his objections that she’d ruin her dinner. That might have been his favorite part—a simple indulgence after a near-perfect day.

And now she’s in his bed.

It had all started innocently enough. She’d walked him to his room after supper, just talking to him, and then she’d followed him inside to _keep_ talking to him, because, he supposes, she likes talking to him. (Not a position nearly anyone else in the world has ever taken before, but he’s not complaining.) And they’d sat on the bed to continue their conversation, which—which was polite, surely, it’s probably improper to make a princess stand—and she’d gone to kiss him goodnight, and.

And hadn’t stopped.

“Anna—”

She’s _everywhere—_ the weight of her warm and welcome in his lap; her tongue in his mouth, her insistent kisses leaving him addled and gasping. Her hands reaching under his shirt, like she can’t get enough of the feel of his skin, fingers splayed wide to grasp as much of him as possible. Her hips roll against his, lazy and sensual, and he has no idea just how far she plans on taking this.

The guilty feeling that _any_ distance would be too far nags at him. It’s one thing to dry hump in the library like teenagers, or even to play house in her bedchamber so long as they keep it chaste, but… she’s royalty. Surely there’s a line here he’s not supposed to cross until they’re at least betrothed or something. Assuming they haven’t already crossed it.

She grabs him by the lapels and twists, falling onto her back and pulling him on top of her.

“Anna—” he tries again.

“Not yet,” she breathes, recapturing his lips. “I don’t want to be done yet.”

Part of him considers protesting, but he can still hear the shaky way she’d recited his script in the library, and how much she’d tried to mean the words. _I’m Anna, and I’m in charge._ He wants to give her this—this ability to decide what happens to her. He knows how rarely she’s had that; this is something he can do.

It occurs to him how easy it would be to let one of his legs fall between hers, so he does. Her thighs eagerly wrap around his offered one, inviting him closer while she grinds into him. She lets out a needy whine.

“More.”

That could mean an awful lot.

“How?” he asks, biting gently at her lower lip.

“More—of this. Um. Your hand…?” she ventures, sounding a million miles away, and he stops moving. It takes her a second to notice; she blinks up at him, bewildered. “Kristoff?”

“Are you sure?”

“I—yeah.”

“Honestly, really sure?”

“Honestly really.”

He hovers above her, hair falling into his eyes.

“You say stop, I stop. Deal?”

“Right now I want you to _start,”_ she says impatiently, pointedly thrusting into him, and he laughs.

He braces himself on his left elbow, right hand brushing through her hair and caressing her cheek before reverently working its way down her body, up her skirt. Moving slowly (“Kristoff, that _tickles”),_ he follows the inseam of her bloomers up her thigh until he reaches the damp spot between her legs. Only a thin layer of cotton between her and his fingertips.

He has to ask again; he has to. “Anna, are you really sure—?”

_“Do something.”_

He does something.

It takes him a second to find a rhythm, but slowly her hips start working against his hand, and then not so slowly, and all of a sudden this is actually happening.

He’s never done this before in his life, so he has basically no game plan at all. He hopes that Anna doesn’t ask, later, because all he’s actually doing is pressing the chords to every silly song he’s ever written for Sven on his lute against her, over and over. _Every one of ‘em’s bad, except you._ She… doesn’t seem to mind. He watches, captivated, as expressions he’s never seen before cross her face: slack-jawed rapture, nose-scrunching bliss. In some distant, hazy part of his brain, he’s vaguely aware of how completely undignified all this must look—the princess, writhing around on his bed, fully clothed. His hand up her dress. It’s hard to find a reason to care, all of a sudden.

Especially now that she’s doing that thing, his favorite thing, the thing where she starts talking and she doesn’t stop. (“—never, not with anyone, just you only you—”). Like she can’t help it. (“—please Kristoff please I want I need—”) Like she doesn’t even realize it’s happening. (“—so _big,_ how do you even function with hands so big, don’t they get in the way?—”) He loves this part of her, her inquisitive, gregarious nature, how she feels so much it just comes out any way it can. Things were so quiet in his world, for so long. Anna fills up every silence.

“Good?” he asks, a little teasingly, as though she hasn’t been giving him incredibly vocal feedback this whole time.

“S’good, so good, _pleasedon’tstop,”_ she pants, and it shoots right to his groin. He starts kissing her—on the cheek, the corner of her mouth, the hinge of her jaw. Anywhere he can reach without changing the angle of his arm. (It’s bordering on painful, forcing himself not to buck against her, but all he has to do is think about how much trust she’s putting in him and suddenly his dick is pretty much the least important thing of all time.) She’s totally incoherent now, babbled half-thoughts swallowed up by breathy moans.

He thinks about asking her if he can slip his hand under her drawers and touch her directly. It’s what the sexy ranch hand would do, in that tawdry bodice ripper they’d found. Or—the ranch hand probably wouldn’t even ask, he’d probably just do it, and be instantly good at it, and it would all be great. But they’re in uncharted territory now, he and Anna, and he never wants to give her something she hasn’t asked for. Which means _he_ should ask. So he thinks about asking, and thinks about what she’d feel like, and he thinks about it long enough that the point becomes moot, because she suddenly goes rigid against him, trembling and shaking _(“Kristoff”),_ and—well he’s not about to complain about that.

“That’s it,” he murmurs encouragingly as he presses sloppy kisses against her neck, knuckles still working between her legs as aftershocks ripple through her and she slowly goes quiet. “That’s it. Hey.”

She sighs, once, and it sounds—relieved? Happy? Sated? He doesn’t know the word for it, but it’s the best thing he’s ever heard—then presses her face against his shoulder. He can’t tell if she’s trying to hide or not, if she’s mortified or bashful or just affectionate. He rolls over onto his back to see if she’ll come with him.

“Hey, I was comfy,” she grumbles, still slightly out of breath, and that answers that question.

“C’mere,” he says, reaching up to brush her hair back from her forehead. She’s kind of sweaty, which is blowing his mind a little. _He did that_. “You okay?”

She curls into his side and lays her head against his chest, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever get over just how perfectly she fits in the crook of his arm. “You’re amazing,” she says.

He clears his throat. “Thanks, but I asked how you are.”

“I’m in love with you.”

She says it the same way she always says it, like she’s astounded she’s allowed to let him know. That alone is enough to make his chest feel strangely tight, but then she’s looking up at him with these half-lidded bedroom eyes and it’s almost more than he can stand. He shifts his weight, trying to relieve some of the pressure in his groin.

“Oh. Um,” she says, and glances down. And—it’s not like he forgot how hard he is. He’d just kind of hoped she wouldn’t notice. (Which was stupid; Anna notices everything.) “Do you want me to…?”

This again. Suddenly he can’t breathe, and his mouth is so dry he has to swallow about ten times. “Um. Do _you_ want to?”

“I…” She looks completely helpless and lost.

“I’m not going anywhere, Anna. We’ll work up to it. Or—or we won’t, I guess.”

“But you—”

“It’s not something I need you to fix for me,” he says firmly.

“But you _want—”_

He laughs, once, a little more manic than he’d intended. “Of course I want. Consider this blanket permission to go to town on all of this—” he pinwheels his free hand sardonically over his body, pecs to knees, “—whenever you decide you’re up for it. But not… not before that, okay? It’s only fun for me if you’re having fun, too.”

She looks down at him again, and manages to comment through her blush: “Okay, but. That can’t be comfortable.”

“I’ll live. Besides, you kinda put me on human pillow duty.”

With a loving smile, she elbows him in the gut, pushing him off the bed. “Go; I’ll still be here after,” she says.

“You should go to your own room,” he points out, without any real feeling behind it.

She grins at him, mischievous and charming. (It’s a little embarrassing, how the sight of it makes him throb that much harder—just her face, doing Anna’s-face things.) “But we still haven’t said goodnight yet.”

“Fine. I’ll be back once I’ve… yeah.” He retreats to the ensuite.

It only takes about thirty seconds of quality time with the hand that touched her and the thought that she’s waiting for him in his bed for him to find release. Still, he takes his time, giving his body room to calm down as he washes up and changes into his pajamas.

She’s laying down with her eyes closed when he walks back in; she clearly hasn’t moved an inch. His whole room smells like sweat and hormones and Anna, which is apparently more than enough to get him half-hard all over again. He rolls his eyes at himself, turns down the lamps, and settles in next to her, pulling the comforter over them both.

“You asleep?”

“Nuh-uh,” she tells him, not opening her eyes.

“Are you gonna be?”

“Mmmm,” she hums, nuzzling into his neck, and a tingly warmth spreads through his whole body. They fought for this. Being comfortable with each other. Still—

“Thought we were gonna say goodnight,” he teases.

She presses a drowsy kiss to his pulse point, apparently too tired to move her head from where she’s already placed it. “G’night.”

“Don’t you want to get out of that corset?”

She groans, and burrows further into him. “S’fine. Shhh.”

The night goes quiet around them. He should really insist, he knows—he should get her up and walk her to her room and leave her there, where she’s _meant_ to be, where no one will question her presence in the morning. And come back here to his empty bed, cold with the lack of her, her scent still on his sheets.

He really, really should.

“Anna?” he ventures—softly, in case she’s already asleep.

“Hmm?”

“Thank you. For, you know. Trusting me.” Her hand, which had been curled delicately into the hollow of his neck, bats at him lightly as if he’s being stupid. He chuckles. Maybe he is. “Oh, and, um. I love you too.”  
  
“Duh,” she mumbles, and then her breathing drops into a gentle but perceptible snore.

Kristoff, heaven help him, finds it cute.

* * *

Anna wakes up draped all over him in the middle of the night because her ribs are aching, and it takes a second for her to realize why. Distantly, she remembers that he’d warned her about the stupid corset, but she’d been so wiped out that her clothing hadn’t seemed important. Her head rushes at the memory, and heat pools between her legs.

 _Get a grip, Anna,_ she chides herself, sliding away from him and slipping off the edge of the bed. Her sides sting with the movement, and she winces. Okay, maybe sleeping in her bodice wasn’t her brightest idea. It takes a few tries, but reaching behind herself she’s able to catch the stays at her back and undo the ties on her own. With a sigh of relief, she lets the corset and the dress it’s attached to fall to the floor. Her whole torso is red and raw; eager to let the cool air soothe the angry marks dug into her skin from the inner boning, she peels off her shift as well.

Better.

Kristoff makes an adorable snuffling noise in his sleep, and she turns to look at him. His arm is still draped open across her pillow, fingers twitching—like he’s waiting for her. She stares down at the shift she’s still holding and, coming to a decision, drops it, before kicking off her bloomers, as well.

He’s sleeping. How much trouble could they get into when he’s sleeping?

The rasp of his sheets against her bare skin brings gooseflesh to her arms and a flush to her cheeks. She’s not even touching him and already she’s feverish with it—but. She’s never been naked in anyone’s bed before.

Slowly, carefully, she gets under the covers and settles back into him. He moves automatically, his body eager to accommodate hers as he shifts onto his side and pulls her closer in his sleep. They rest together, cutlery in a drawer, and—

Anna bites her lip to suppress a gasp.

He’s hard against her backside, between her thighs.

And she doesn’t know what to do when her first thought—instead of the anxiety she’d expected of herself—is _I can do something about that._

Can she?

“Anna…” he groans, and she freezes before realizing he’s still asleep—dreaming of her. Of _being with_ her.

Temptation shoots through her veins like adrenaline. She’s stopped herself before for any one of a thousand reasons: fear at their closeness, even now; a lingering sense of duty to wait until marriage; her concerns that she might do it wrong, that she’ll freeze up or freak out or disappoint him somehow, but maybe… if she can stay behind him the whole time, if he’s not awake enough to find any faults with her, y’know, _technique…_

She turns in his arms, and props herself up on one elbow to lean in, nose nuzzling against the shell of his ear. “Turn around for me,” she whispers. There’s a low, raw thrum to her voice she wasn’t expecting; he responds to it instantly, blinking awake.

“Hmmm?”

“Turn over,” she repeats, and he shifts for her, sheets rustling.

“You wanna be the big spoon?” he chuckles sleepily, and warmth spreads through her chest.

“Something like that. Trust me?”

“‘Course…” he breathes, already drifting back off, and she delicately puts her hand on his shoulder before caressing his bicep. He stiffens, questioning. “Anna?”

“Go back to sleep,” she suggests in a tone a little too uneven to be considered sexy, hand running slowly down his side before wrapping around his hip. “You’re, um. Dreaming?” She grimaces. What is she _thinking,_ she’s no seductress, she can barely even—

He shifts his feet, entwining their legs and bringing his knees up—pulling her closer to him.

_Okay._

Okay.

Practically of its own accord, her palm brushes upward, nimbly pushing under his shirt to stroke his stomach, his chest. His abdominals twitch beneath her shaking fingers, and she idles against the waistband of his pants before leisurely bringing her hand up to his pecs once more. Her heart pounds at the thrill of it; her ears roar.

“W-what’re you…?”

“Just relax,” she intones, because her hand is already wracked with tremors and if he freaks out, she’ll freak out. And this feels—nice. Good.

He’s still tense under her touch, but she can feel him trying to loosen up at her request. She murmurs at him soothingly, words like “easy” and “that’s right,” but honestly they’re just as much for her as for him. She’s the one liable to spook like a horse at any moment. Minute by minute, his muscles go slack as she continues her languid monologue, and her confidence grows as she builds a drowsy, trusting bubble for them to exist in. This bed. This moment.

“This okay?” she asks, lips against his neck, and he nods, his hair tickling her nose at the movement. She smiles into his skin, but—“I need you to tell me, handsome.”

“Mmmm… s’good,” he mumbles, and she can’t help it; she grinds against him at the detached, somnolent tone of his voice, trying to get more pressure where she needs it. The feeling of her breasts pressing into his back makes her a little lightheaded as her hand continues to travel his chest, and then—cautiously—lower. His breathing grows shaky and shallow, and he actually lets out a strangled moan when she scratches him a little with her fingernails.

“I love you,” she says, because she hasn’t in a while. If she’s going to do this, it feels very important that he know.

Which—what _is_ she trying to do, exactly?

He lets out a soft, needy noise that might be the world’s most incoherent _love you, too,_ and she bites her lip. She’s—she’s helping him out. That’s what she’s doing.

Right.

She cups him lightly on her next downstroke over his pants, as an experiment. Every inch of him stiffens immediately—including the ones beneath her hand.

“Shhh. Shhh. I’ve got you,” she reassures him, and it’s only after it’s out of her mouth that she realizes what an intensely intimate thing that is to say, when she’s holding his length. It’s an almost dizzying amount of power.

His hips rock forward the slightest bit, and she smiles. A bubble of panic is floating somewhere in the back of her head, but she ignores it. This is okay. She’s okay.

“May I…?” she asks, not wanting to do anything too explicit without verbal permission.

He practically whimpers. “Please.”

She rubs him cautiously through the cotton of his pants, and he moans, pressing into her touch. The heat of him radiates through the fabric as she gets her hand around him properly. She doesn’t want to chafe him by keeping this up too long, but she needs these precious seconds to psych herself up before breaching the next barrier between them. He doesn’t seem to mind; every movement of her fingers, however tentative, draws almost obscene noises out of him. She squeezes her thighs together, a little surprised at how well this is working for her.

Now there’s a thought.

Before she can let herself think better of it, she withdraws her hand—he whines a little at the loss—and runs her fingers through the gathering wetness between her legs. Slick with it, she reaches back around and dips her hand under his waistband.

They gasp in unison when her curious fingertips meet the sensitive skin of his cock.

 _“Anna,_ ” he hisses, like it’s instinct, like it’s the only word he can think of, and all she wants is to find the edges of this threshold they’ve found themselves standing in together, and to push through it, and see who they are on the other side.

Of course, that would be easier if she had any earthly idea what she’s doing. It seems straightforward enough, pumping her hand up and down, but she wonders if there’s some sort of trick she’s not getting. Kristoff’s just on the wrong side of out of it to give her any suggestions—which is how she’d wanted it, because she wouldn’t have been able to start this in the first place knowing he was critiquing her… performance—but now she feels lost. It’s clumsy and stifling, working him inside his pants, but she doesn’t dare ask him to remove them.

After a moment of hesitation, she adds a soft squeeze when she’s near the tip, which makes Kristoff shudder and moan. His timid thrusts into her fist come harder and faster, and she rocks against him from behind in encouragement.

She can’t believe she’s doing this.

She really can’t believe he’s letting her.

In her peripheral vision, she watches his arm muscles flex in concert with the pistoning of his hips. She imagines what he’s doing with his hands—how, just beyond her line of sight, he must be fisting the sheets in time to her ministrations. A rush of pleasure pulses through her at the thought.

“That’s good, you’re doing so good…” Distantly, she it occurs to her that the words she’s hearing are coming out of her own mouth. She’s genuinely not sure how long she’s been babbling; the thoughtless string of encouragements seems to be pouring out of her. “That’s it. It’s alright. It’s okay to chase it, I want you to feel good, I _want_ you to—”

She thinks she loses the plot for a minute there, drifting on the push-and-pull of their bodies. But she can feel the tension building in him; knows it can’t be long, now.

“It’s alright. You can let go for me.”

His breath hitches. “I—”

“C’mon, Kristoff; it’s okay. Let go,” she says, meaning for it to be a reassurance; it maybe comes out a little more like an order. Her teeth graze his ear in a gentle bite, and his whole body seizes as he releases into her hand. His muscles twitch and strain with the strength of his orgasm; she kisses him repeatedly, just below his hairline. After a long moment—then two, then three—he goes limp. “That’s it; I’ve got you…” she murmurs.

And, okay, so—her hand is… wet, and sticky, and even though she wipes it off on Kristoff’s shirt a small part of her is protesting that she will never feel truly un-sticky again. But that feeling is dwarfed by the heady combination of smug accomplishment in herself and chest-bursting pride and love for him that engulfs her. She feels drunk with it; like she’s had too much champagne and not enough food while dancing all night, the whole world breathless and tipsy and smeared at the edges for her.

She buries her nose in the sweat-damp hair at the back of his neck, kisses the spot once more, then whispers, “Kristoff?”

“Mmmm?”

“Wanna be big spoon again?”

He turns over with a cute little grumble, throws his arm over her, and pulls her closer with a contented sigh. Within seconds, she feels his muscles twitch and relax, and he’s _out._ She knows she should wash her hands, or put her shift back on, or—or _leave,_ frankly, go back to her own room like she’s supposed to—but… that would mean disturbing him. And he sounds so deliciously, deeply asleep now—the rhythm of his even breathing lulling her into a light doze, the weight of his heavy limbs around her warm and comforting. She’ll just rest for a few minutes, she decides, just until she knows he won’t wake up, and then she’ll… she’ll, um…

She slips into dreams before she can remember whatever it is she’s forgetting.

* * *

When she wakes, it’s to a strangled yelp that vaguely approximates her name and a frantic scurrying of limbs that disrupts the cocoon of warmth she’d been wrapped up in.

“Whas’happenin?” she groans, sitting up and letting the blankets fall away, and—jeez, it’s _freezing_ in here, why’s—?

“Anna, you’re _naked,”_ Kristoff squeaks, at roughly the same moment she realizes that that is, in fact, the case.

Nothing to do but own it, now. “I am.”

“I feel like. You weren’t naked. When I fell asleep,” he ventures haltingly as he stares at the ceiling. His whole face is turning bright red.

“I wasn’t. Well. Not the first time, anyway.”

If anything, he blushes even harder. “I, um. I thought maybe that was a dream.”

Normally, she knows, she’d be clambering to cover herself back up; that she’d be just as, if not more, mortified than he is. But somehow, she’s just… not embarrassed. As though a door inside her has been unlocked and opened wide. Like they’ve gone through the threshold together.

“Kristoff, look at me,” she orders gently, and his eyes flicker—uneasily but immediately—to her face. Just her face, meeting her gaze. _Interesting._ “Are you okay? With… everything?”

“Me? Yeah! Yes. Well. Except…”

“Yeah?”

He shifts a little, uncomfortable where he sits. “Next time—not that I’m _assuming_ there’s going to be a next time—could you, um. Clean me up, maybe? I mean, I must’ve been really zonked to just pass back out like that, but now I’m kind of…” He winces, clearly filled with regret at having to pick an adjective. “Crusty.”

Ah. _There’s_ the embarrassment. “Ohmygosh, I’m so sorry. You should go, um—go do whatever you need, I’m sorry,” she groans.

With a nod, he gets out of bed and gingerly makes his way into the bathroom. Finally succumbing to the winter air in the room, Anna grabs her shift from the floor and puts it on. Nope, still cold. Sucking in a deep breath to psych herself up, she gets out of bed just long enough to jog to Kristoff’s dresser and dig out a sweater, then darts back to the bed and hunkers down under the covers before pulling it over her head. Mmm, much better.

The light streaming in through the gap in the curtains is a soft blue—it can’t be too much before dawn. She knows she needs to sneak back to her room before it gets any later; the servants will be making their morning rounds within the hour. But she can’t leave, not yet. Not when it feels unfinished.

It’s not long before the bed dips with Kristoff’s weight as he climbs back in next to her. The minutes stretch to the sound of their breathing as they lay side by side; the light from the window gets brighter, whiter—then yellow, gold, orange. She know she should say something, anything, but she doesn’t know where to start. And the quiet between them isn’t tense, it’s… patient. Like the moment is waiting for them to decide what to do with it.

“You were a really great big spoon, you know,” Kristoff gently ventures, out of nowhere. “We should do that more often, even when you don’t—if we’re not—um…”

“Yeah?” she laughs, rescuing him from his need to finish the sentence.

He sighs in relief. “Yeah.”

“Okay. Spin, big guy.”

“What, now?”

“Yes, now.” He turns his back to her, and she curls herself up into him like a knapsack. “I bet you could just carry me around like this, if you wanted.”

“You’re lighter than my mountaineering pack; that’s for sure,” he chuckles. “People would have questions, though.”

“Would they? It’s the natural order of things. I’m the princess; I _must_ be carried,” she says, sniffing haughtily. He snorts.

They fall back into their comfortable silence; their fingers entangle. His back pushes gently against her face with every breath, his shoulder blades expanding and contracting under her cheek. She marvels at the miracle of him. Hers.

“Anna… what _was_ that, last night?”

A half dozen sarcastic answers come to mind, but she can’t bring herself to voice any of them. “I don’t know. It was… easier, like this.”

“…With you behind me?”

“When you couldn’t see me.”

She can’t see or feel his frown, but she senses it all the same. “I’d never judge you, you know.”

“I do know, but— _I_ judge me. Having you like this… it helped me get out of my own head.”

“ _Having_ me?” he repeats, saucily, and she brings her heel down swiftly to reverse-kick him in the shin. He doesn’t even say ‘ow,’ the jerk—but he pulls their joined hands up to his chest. Next to his heart. “Hey. You can have me any way you like. You know that, don’t you?”

She kisses him gently at the top of his spine. “I know.”

“Good. Now hold on.”

“Wha— _hey!”_ she yelps, but it’s too late; he’s already slid off the bed and yanked her along with him, slinging her onto his back as he stands up.

“Let’s get you back to your room before Gerda comes to wake you up.”

“Kristoff, put me down!”

“No way. The princess _must_ be carried,” he echoes, and she has to bite his shoulder to stifle her giggles as he tiptoes the two of them through the halls and back to her chambers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Ariana Grande chapter title is necessitated by my shameless wholesale thievery of ["I must be carried,"](https://professorspork.tumblr.com/post/177171002077/wingbeifong-arianagrandre-ariana-joking-about) a perfect gag which lives in my head rent-free. Though "No Tears Left To Cry" is somewhat of a departure from the soft acoustic vibe this fic generally goes for, [this cover](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9ecs_ciTuvk&ab_channel=LeroySanchez) comes closer and is pretty excellent!
> 
> (Which is to say, if anyone was wondering if these chapter titles add up to a meticulously-curated playlist on my part, the answer is yes they absolutely do.)
> 
> As ever, please feel free to drop me a line on [tumblr](https://professorspork.tumblr.com/) or just let me know what you think down in the comments! And a special hello to my new VPRK friends, it's a pleasure to have you.


	4. once rejected; now accepted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for AN ACCURATE* DEPICTION OF THE ICE HARVESTING SEASON. I can't believe I never looked this up before, but—ice harvesting is done in the winter, not summer! Which makes perfect sense when you think about it for more than a few seconds, but this franchise is so misleading about it the fandom largely got it backwards. You learn something new every day!
> 
> *Well. Slightly more accurate than the usual, anyway.
> 
> In case anyone is keeping score, this fic is not Olaf's Frozen Adventure compliant.

“What do you mean, _never?”_ Anna gasps, as the two of them stroll arm-in-arm through cobblestone streets. “You’ve _never_ been in Arendelle for Christmas before?”

The holiday’s still weeks away, but Anna’s talked of little else lately—only occasionally interrupting herself to fret over Elsa’s approaching birthday, and how she can make it special with everything else going on. Her expectations seem sky-high, but Kristoff gets it. It’s the sisters’ first chance to have the whole festive season as a real family again; of course Anna wants it to be _perfect,_ scheduling in time for every tradition and revel she’s had the chance to be jealous of for the last thirteen years.

Even if to him it sounds, well. More overwhelming than fun.

“This is the start of proper harvesting season,” he shrugs. “Normally I’m up the mountain, staying in my cabin and getting as big a haul as I can. The closest I get to the city is the upper ridge on the western path; I built an ice house there to keep my overstock for summer.”

She frowns, like he’s said something confusing. “You have overstock for summer?”

“Usually, yeah. Ideally you harvest everything over winter and work off that for the rest of the year.” He quietly prays that she’ll just leave it there, certain that if he elaborates he’ll either upset her or bore her to tears.

“…Usually?” she asks. Nuts.

“Well, uh.” He clears his throat. “This year Elsa sort of… maybe went a little overboard. When she melted everything.”

To his relief, surprised laughter bubbles up from Anna’s chest. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, it’s why I’ve had to go up so often.”

“Does she… know? Oh, poor Elsa!”

“The guild leader broke it to her pretty gently, I think. But listen—while we’re talking about Christmas…”

“Ohmygosh, Kristoff, it’s the best! People go door to door caroling, and there’s an ice sculpting competition down by the fjord—well, I bet Elsa’s a shoe-in for that one, but she should probably be disqualified, huh?—and everyone comes together to put decorations up in the square, and the whole town smells like pie. I used to be able to juuuust get a whiff of it, out my window. I can’t believe you’ve never been!”

“You’ve never been, either.”

“I was _locked in._ What’s your excuse?”

“I’ve been told I’m allergic to fun,” he says drolly. “Which—that’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about. With Christmas.”

Her face falls. “Oh. Do you not—? I didn’t even think to ask, of course you’ll want to spend it with your family. Or. Do trolls even celebrate Christmas? I guess it doesn’t matter, if everyone else is taking the time to go home it only makes sense that—”

“Hey, hey. No, I’m—the trolls couldn’t care less that it’s Christmas. I’m excited to spend it with you. It’s just…”

It’s just that the first gift she ever gave him was a brand-new sled and replacements of everything he’d ever owned, without even thinking twice. Like it was nothing. It’s just that he’s never had a place to go for Christmas before, and if he tells her that, she’ll cry. It’s just that Anna thrives on this sort of thing, on crowds and activities and events, and he’s—well.

Allergic to fun.

“I just want to keep it simple, that’s all,” he settles on.

“I can do simple! One simple Christmas, coming right up. Downright quaint, even.” She’s on a roll now. “Now, I make no promises about Christmas _Eve,_ mind, but. It’s not all going to be, like, parades and parties and Catherine wheels. I want it to be homey, too. That’s important to me. In fact, we’re opening up the castle to everyone for all of Advent—anyone who wants to come through and see, or who needs a place to stay. I thought it would be nice, y’know? We’re bringing on all these new people to staff to get everything ready, and—” She goes quiet, suddenly. This happens every now and again: Anna’s mind races ahead of her and it takes her mouth a second to catch up. (To be fair, he’s seen the opposite happen plenty of times, too.) But this time, her expression crumples in on itself. Like whatever conclusion she’s reached, it’s thrown her off her happiness. She bites her lip. “—I’m really excited,” she concludes weakly, not sounding excited in the least.

He wishes he knew what was going on in that head of hers. It must get so _loud_ in there sometimes, and she seems just as caught off-guard by it when it happens as he is. And he doesn’t know how to help her when more often than not, she’s the one who sets herself off—not knowing a line of thought is dangerous until she’s already chased it to the end.

“Y’know,” he says, carefully, “I’ve heard peppermint is good for allergies.”

“Huh?”

He brings them to a stop in front of the confectioner’s; the front window stocked with every sweet imaginable. “Or we could try exposure therapy. To fun,” he clarifies, fake-serious. “Just a little bit at a time. Maybe I’ll build up a tolerance.”

She breaks into a grin. “I dunno, I wouldn’t want to test your limits. We’ll try the mint thing first,” she says, dragging him inside. “For science.”

Maybe he’s not so bad at helping her, after all.

(His feeling of suave confidence in his boyfriend abilities lasts all of three minutes. The sight of her pushing a peppermint stick between her lips—a look of ecstasy on her face as her cheeks hollow around it—is so unexpectedly provocative he has to bite down _hard_ to stop himself from making a noise. Well. A different noise. Her eyes fly open at the crunching sound, and she boggles at him like he’s just tried to spoon soup with his feet. “What are you, a _monster?”_ she cries. “What kind of person just chomps on a candy cane?”

He only has one option here.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says, doing it again without breaking eye contact. Chewing with his mouth open, he asks, “Is this another one of your faux pas?”

“Stop, _stop,”_ she giggles, trying to grab the candy out of his mouth, and this is good, this is safe. It’s harder to find her sexy when she’s making fun of him.

…A little, anyway.

If he concentrates on it.)

* * *

He hardly sees Anna after that day in the market. She throws herself into preparations for the holidays, so he takes the opportunity to get into the mountains and load up a proper haul. (Olaf asks if he can come—and this is true, Kristoff counted— _seventeen times._ Kristoff’s not sure how much longer he can hold out.)

The ice sculpting contest _is_ a highlight of the season; it’s just that he’s interested in it for a little more than mere entertainment. Harvesters jockey for months to be the crown’s chosen supplier, showing off the size and clarity of ice they’re capable of delivering and competing to give the best prices to the contenders as they practice in the weeks leading up to the event. No one’s never had the official account two years in a row, and Kristoff’s never gotten it at all.

But this year, he’s _Ice Master and Deliverer,_ whatever that means. He has no idea whether he has a leg up, now, when it comes to this sort of stuff; he’s been too embarrassed to ask.

The guys don’t treat him much different, which is a relief. Granted, most of them never treated him particularly well to begin with, but their gruff indifference is soothing: consistent background noise in a life that’s been turned completely upside down. And the small handful of people Kristoff tolerates and works well with—know-it-all Lars, with his quick wit and quicker tongue; Aleks, a fellow orphan, shy as a mouse with new people but strong as an ox on the ice; Erik, the guild leader, who taught Kristoff just about everything he knows—have made it clear that as long as Kristoff works just as hard as he always has, they don’t give a flying fig who he spends his time with.

The labor is familiar and satisfying, leaving his head clear and his muscles aching pleasantly. He’s in a proper good mood as he heads back to town with Sven, stopping at the ice house to load off the larger pieces for summer storage and exchange his sleigh for the hand cart. A melody pops into his head, and he tries to commit it to memory for later.

…He’s in maybe a little less of a good mood after the first three artisans he visits give him their regrets and say they’re already set on ice, thanks, and maybe he should have come by last week.

“Of all the stupid, lousy…”

“Something wrong?” a familiar voice asks, interrupting his grumbling as he tries not to stomp through the square, and he stands up a little straighter.

“Elsa! Hey. Nothing’s wrong, just—the usual. What, uh. What are you doing out, today?”

“Getting a list of dietary restrictions for the feast,” she chuckles, showing him a long sheet of parchment. “Don’t tell Anna. If she realizes there’s something she forgot that I delegated to myself, she’ll have a fit.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” he promises.

“Are you making deliveries? Here, I’ll walk with you,” she says, falling into step with him and waving her hand. A small flurry appears above his cart, keeping his ice pristine.

“Whoa. Thanks.” The casual display of her powers leaves him amazed, as always; he closes his hanging jaw as quickly as he can. Here he’s been pissy about being outsold by other harvesters, when Elsa could do away with the whole industry if she wanted to. With just a flick of her fingers.

It’s humbling.

Belatedly, he remembers she asked him a question. “No deliveries, today—sales. Well. No sales either, but not for lack of trying,” he stutters, wincing at his ineloquence.

She looks again at the ice he’s hawking. “The sculpting contest?” she guesses.

“That’s the idea.”

She hums in response, which—he has no idea what that means. They descend into silence as they stroll together, and Kristoff feels himself getting hot under the collar despite the cold weather. He doesn’t want this to be awkward. He and Elsa rarely spend time together without Anna as a buffer outside the occasional meal, but he can _do_ this. It’s not like Elsa’s much of a people person, either. They have an understanding. Sort of.

“Elsa, listen—”

“Kristoff—”

They both laugh helplessly, meeting eyes. “You first,” she offers.

He swallows. “I know I probably should have asked this months ago, but… Ice Master and Deliverer. What does that—mean, exactly?”

Elsa gives one of her sheepish half-smiles—the grimace that pulls self-deprecatingly to one side, like even she knows she’s being a little ridiculous, and she’s giving you permission to find it funny. “I was hoping you’d tell me. It can be whatever you want, really. The position is an old one; it used to be the harvester who exclusively served the royal family and state functions, and handled the export trade. But my father had to dissolve the title after, well…” She waves a hand over her body, indicating all of her. “I’m sorry to have left you at loose ends with that. I wasn’t really thinking about what you’d actually _do_ in the role, I was just... so grateful, Kristoff, for everything you’d done already for my sister. For me. I wanted to give you something, a reward, but it had to be one you’d actually accept. And after Anna told me the whole story and I spent a little time with you, it was very clear to me that you’re not the sort of man who likes a fuss made over him. So this seemed… a practical compromise.”

His cheeks are burning. “I don’t want any preferential treatment,” he mutters.

If anything, her smile just grows bigger. Fonder. “I know. I promise, I’m not planning on handing you anything that you haven’t earned.”

Something goes _click_ in his brain at the phrasing, and he does a double-take. Wait. Is this a metaphor? Should he have been paying closer attention? He’d definitely thought they were talking about ice, but she’s looking at him like they’re talking about more than that.

“Well. Good,” he says. “What, uh. What were you going to say? Actually, don’t tell me—hold that thought,” he backtracks, because they’ve reached Nils Angstrom’s hat shop and he can’t just keep walking in circles to avoid interrupting her. “I’ll be quick.”

He steps into the store, ducking a little to get through the narrow entryway. Nils’ millinery skills include an excellent sense of geometry and proportion; he won the ice sculpting contest a few years ago as a result. He’s always given Kristoff a fair price for any furs or feathers he could trap and sell on the side, so Kristoff tends to like him—even if his daughter is a merciless crack shot when it comes to snowball wars.

“Mr. Bjorgman!” he calls, stepping in from the back at the sound of the bell above the door. “Good afternoon. Looking to buy a gift for your new paramour? Or are you—goodness gracious.”

Kristoff’s still trying to figure out how he feels about people referring to Anna has his _paramour_ when he realizes he’s left Elsa just standing in the street, and no wonder Nils is staring distractedly over his shoulder. But when he turns around to see what Nils is reacting to, Elsa’s nowhere in sight—just the ice, where he left it in the cart.

“That’s quite the haul, son.”

“I, uh. Thanks.”

“I was thinking I’d retire from sculpting after coming in fifth last year— _fifth,_ I still can’t believe it, after that travesty of a swan Rolf Pedersen made?—but that is some mighty fine ice, there. Clear as crystal!”

It doesn’t take much cajoling to talk Nils into the sale; Kristoff leaves the store with gold in his pocket and orders to take the ice—the entire cartful!—to Nils’ house a few blocks down, so his wife Tove can store it all in their cellar.

He finds Elsa as he turns the corner, whistling the melody he’d thought of earlier. “You didn’t have to hide, you know,” he says.

“I wasn’t hiding, I was just proving the point—I’m not going to help you do things you’re perfectly capable of doing on your own. As promised.”

He shakes his head. For all that Elsa tries to appear the stoic, reserved one to Anna’s ball of energy, they have an identical flair for the dramatic. “What were you about to say, before?” he asks.

“Oh, just. I’m glad you’re back. Anna’s been firing on all cylinders for the holiday, and I think it will be… good for her to have something else to focus on, for a bit.”

Elsa’s words are mild, but he can tell by her pointedly diplomatic tone that she’s anxious over just how far overboard Anna’s gone. So much for her promises to him to keep it simple. But then, maybe that’s what he’s here for—to cut through all the noise and point out the obvious. “I think she just wants to make sure you have a good time,” he says softly.

“And I want to make sure that _she—_ ” The flurry over Kristoff’s cart starts to blizzard.

He turns to Elsa, worried. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” she says, terse, taking deep breaths until the storm calms. She looks down morosely at the list in her hands: frost has crept out from her palms and saturated the parchment, causing the ink to run and rendering it illegible. “Well. There goes my afternoon.”

“Does that happen, um. A lot?”

A muscle in her jaw twitches. “You have no idea. I had to rewrite Hans’ extradition edict to the Southern Isles about five times. Kai moved all our tax code books to the library months ago; they were getting ruined in my office. In fact, Anna says I’m not allowed to think too hard in there anymore, because I _brainstorm.”_

Kristoff laughs, once, then snaps his mouth shut—was he supposed to find that funny?

She give him another one of her permissive lip-quirks, then sighs. “This is exactly the kind of thing I was trying to… I just wanted to help her. Take _one_ thing off her plate.”

“Anna’s not always great about conceding defeat,” he agrees, chuckling.

“You know, you’d be surprised? I suppose I’m just out of practice, but—there was a time in my life where my parents would come to _me_ to get Anna to eat her peas or do her fractions. Because if I asked her to do it, she would.”

“She’d still do anything for you.”

“But I don’t want _anything._ I want—she’s putting all of this effort into these plans and I don’t know how get through to her, to tell her we don’t need all of that. I’ve tried so many times, but it’s in one ear and out the other.” She looks at him askance. “What do _you_ do, when she’s…?”

Kristoff trips over a loose cobblestone and stumbles straight into his cart with a loud _oof,_ knocking the wind right out of himself.

“Kristoff! Are you alright?”

“One second,” he wheezes, clutching his stomach. _Ow._

It’s just—Elsa’s asking _him_ for advice? About Anna?

He slowly catches his breath and straightens up, meeting Elsa’s concerned gaze. “I dunno, mostly what you said. Give her something else to focus on; call her out if she’s really lost the thread. Listen when she needs to talk.”

“But she won’t talk, she’s just making all these lists and adding more and more things to the schedule and…” Elsa bites her lip. “She does so much for other people, and she never asks for help or for anything in return because she’s never _had_ help or anything in return. That’s my fault. And I know she doesn’t mean it to be hurtful, now, but… it’s like she doesn’t trust me. To be there for her.”

This feels very, very above his paygrade.

“I think—I guess these things just take time,” he stammers, unsure.

She squints at him, suspicious, even as her face relaxes into something approaching a smile. “Did she tell you I said that? About you and her? Because throwing my own advice back at me is hardly fair play.”

Something warm and tender lights in his chest. “You said that?” It’s not like he thought Anna didn’t talk to Elsa about this stuff, but the idea that Elsa is on his side, here, that she’s rooting for them… it means a lot. A whole, awful lot.

Elsa just buries her face in her hands with a rueful laugh. “We’re hopeless.”

* * *

Operation: Distract Anna isn’t going great.

It’s like she’s one step ahead of him, no matter what he does. He forgoes the chance to supply the sculpting contest when he realizes it would mean time away from her—Elsa picks Aleks at his recommendation—but Anna doesn’t even seem to notice he’s around. When he offers over breakfast to take her on a joyride in the sled, she demurs; innuendos that would normally draw her laughing into his arms render up little more than absent-minded pecks on the cheek. He’s forever entering rooms she’s already left, being regretfully informed by passing staff _oh, you just missed her._ Bringing out his lute works for an hour or two, but all she does is pester him about writing a birthday song for Elsa, which feels very much like giving into her impulses, not getting her mind off them.

He’ll just have to get creative.

* * *

Anna understands, intellectually, that one of the reasons they’re bringing on more castle staff is for things just like this—decorating, preparing, rearranging the furniture. But the tours were _her_ idea, and she doesn’t want it to be a stuffy official thing. She lives here—she wants it to have the personal touch. So she carves out some time between coordinating with all the town merchants and approving the itinerary of the children’s holiday pageant to spend a Saturday by herself, polishing fixtures and hanging holly boughs and affixing ribbons on all of their plants and suits of armor.

“Anna, where do you want this?”

Well. Mostly by herself.

Kristoff is on tall person duty, but only because he’d happened to walk by at the wrong moment and caught her standing on her tiptoes atop the back of an (admittedly very expensive) armchair to reach the upper wainscoting, and declared that she needed an assistant.

“Want what?” she asks absently, absorbed in her current project of weaving tinsel into the garlands she’s already hung up. In hindsight, she should have done that first. She can see that now.

_“This.”_

_“What?”_

“Woulja look?”

“Kristoff, I’m kinda busy—”

“I’m trying to be romantic, here!” he exclaims, barely skirting full-on whine territory, and Anna looks up.

He’s holding mistletoe.

“…Oh.” She tries to tell him that she’s _working_ and they’ll just have to make out later, tries to suppress the smitten smile she can feel coming on, but it’s no use. Her face just wants to beam at him; her body wants him near. And, well. Just a teensy break won’t kill her. She points blindly at whatever happens to be above her head. “Here. Definitely.”

He crosses the hall in three easy strides, reaching up to tuck the mistletoe into a nearby sconce. “You’ve got tinsel in your hair,” he informs her, before cupping her cheeks and dipping down to kiss her.

“Mmm. Does it look—bad?” she asks against his lips, between kisses.

“No.”

“You hesitated.”

 _“Anna,”_ he groans, laughing, and she wants to tease him more except his hands have left her face and traveled south, far south, and suddenly he’s picking her up and holding her there against the wall like she weighs absolutely nothing at all and she’s got other, much more pressing things to think about. Her legs wrap around his waist; he uses the new leverage to slip one hand underneath her skirt to palm her ass and hold her steady. He kisses her purposefully, slow and deliberate, and he’s always so careful with her.

She thinks she could stand for him to be a little less careful with her.

“I’ve missed you,” he says, nipping at her bottom lip, and that’s—a very good point. She has not been allocating nearly enough time for this. She’ll have to re-assess her planner, later.

“Well, now you have me,” she gasps, breathless as his other hand slides under her dress to join the first, kneading and teasing. “What are you gonna do with me?”

He growls playfully, pressing her harder against the wall; her legs tighten around him of their own volition. Anna buries her hands in his hair, wanting him closer. Wanting him all over. She moans as he licks into her mouth, raking her nails against his scalp; he _squeezes_ her backside in retaliation, and she can’t help it—she can’t help the way her hips start to rock, undulating against him. His lips move to her neck, and—it wouldn’t be weird to _ask_ for a hickey, would it? It’s winter, she can wear a scarf or something, she can—

The sound of a clearing throat interrupts them. Kristoff _drops_ her like a sack of stolen goods; Anna scrambles to get her feet under her legs in time.

“I think we need to talk,” Elsa says, and maybe Anna didn’t catch herself after all, because it feels like she’s still plummeting through the floor.

* * *

“Please don’t send him away,” Anna blurts, the second Elsa’s closed the door to her office behind them. “Please. We’ll be good, I promise, we’ll keep our hands to ourselves—and our, um, other body parts—and we’ll follow the rules, okay, I _swear,_ just please, Elsa, please—”

“Anna, slow down,” Elsa says, hands hovering vaguely in front of Anna’s body like she can’t decide if she should put them on Anna’s shoulders or not. “Slow down.”

But Anna can’t slow down; her thoughts are coming at a million miles a minute, more quickly than her mouth can voice them or her feet can pace around the room. “It was my fault anyway, I started it, Kristoff didn’t do anything wrong, I _asked_ him to, so it’s me that should be punished, really, and—”

“Anna!” At that, her cool grip does fall on Anna’s upper arms, holding her in place. “No one’s getting punished for anything, okay?”

Anna blinks. “What?”

“Let’s start at the beginning. Are you and Kristoff sleeping together?”

“Like—?”

“Are you having sex,” Elsa grinds out, looking very much like she wants to pinch the bridge of her nose, but can’t because she’s busy holding onto Anna. Maybe Anna should pinch it for her? No, that would be super weird.

“No. Not—no.” Mostly. And certainly not lately.

“But you want to.” Elsa doesn’t really say it like a question.

“…Yes.” She plows ahead before Elsa can say anything else: “But we won’t! Obviously! We can keep our distance, really, you can even get us a chaperone or something if it would make you feel better, just. Please. Please. Don’t make him go, don’t make me choose, I can be good, it won’t happen again; we—” Elsa wraps Anna in a tight, unexpected hug; the pressure of it finally shocks Anna into pausing for breath. “Um. Hi.”

“Why do you keep talking like I’m about to force you into a chastity belt and banish Kristoff from the realm?” Elsa asks, quiet and gentle in her ear.

The question brings Anna up short. She’d just assumed—well. There’s precedent, isn’t there? Elsa hadn’t been too keen on Anna going so fast with Hans (okay, maybe a bad example), and Anna’s whole life has been one closed door after another keeping her from her loved ones. Plus, it’s the oldest story in the books. Anna can list a dozen plots off the top of her head that circle around couples kept apart by class differences or feuding families, locked away from each other’s company, having to sneak around to even glimpse one another because society forbids their love. It’s _expected,_ it’s always like that, it’s—

Oh.

She’s doing it again.

“I guess I just thought…” she trails off, knowing Elsa already knows perfectly well what she thought. She drops her forehead to Elsa’s shoulder, frowning when it takes a bit more effort and bending than she’s used to— _Kristoff’s_ shoulder would just be right there, conveniently forehead height.

“You’ve seemed stressed, lately,” Elsa ventures tentatively.

“What, me? I’m fine. I’m just—molehill-mountains again. That’s all.”

“Okay, but—I hope you know that… We’re a team, right? You and me. I’m not ever going to be the thing that stands between you and your happiness, Anna,” Elsa whispers, and Anna throws her arms around her, squeezing her back as tightly as she can. “Not anymore. I promise.”

“I know. I swear, I know.” Anna lets herself enjoy the hug a few seconds more before she points out the obvious: “I get the feeling there’s a ‘but’ coming, though.”

 _“But_ —you’ve got to be careful.”

“I know, I know,” Anna chuckles. “No beating you to the punch popping out heirs until way down the line.”

Elsa stiffens in Anna’s grip. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be considerably more careful than _that.”_

“I was joking—” Anna protests as Elsa pulls away to give her a stern look.

“I’m not. Open gates means the eyes of the world are on us, these days—and with trade no longer coming from Weselton or the Southern Isles, we really can’t afford to offend anyone else. Delegations are arriving all the time, and we’ve got that summit in spring. Not to mention all of the new staff we’ve taken on, _plus_ the folks from town you have walking around.” She reaches up, and runs a hand through Anna’s hair; her fingers have tinsel wound through them when she pulls back. “How people see us matters.”

“So… have all the sex I want, just don’t get caught. Is what you’re saying.”

Elsa’s visibly fighting back a smile, now. Anna can work with that. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t _not_ say it.”

“Anna, just—please, take this seriously. Consider it my early birthday present.”

“You think _that’s_ a birthday present? Gadzooks, I’m going to blow your mind.”

Elsa shakes her head, ducking it low to mask the grin breaking through. “I… look forward to it. In any event, while we’re on the subject, I do want to be sure that you know—that is, that Mother and Father talked to you about—”

Both of them have turned pink. “I know about the birds and the bees, Elsa.”

“And you’ll… take the proper precautions?”

Anna rolls her eyes. “Yes, Elsa. _If_ Kristoff and I start sleeping together—” Elsa scoffs at this, at _if,_ which is very rude but makes Anna’s heart turn over in her chest. Elsa thinks they’re a sure thing; Elsa sees it, too. “—I’ll make sure it’s taken care of.”

“Then you have my blessing.”

“What every girl wants,” Anna drawls. “Permission from her sister to have sex.”

“Now go put Kristoff out of his misery, would you? We’ve probably already left him in suspense too long.”

Anna doesn’t need to be told twice.

* * *

Kristoff anxiously paces his room like it’s a cage, fists clenching as he tries to figure out what on earth to do with himself. He’s already packed and unpacked a bag three times already, half-certain there will be guards at the door any minute. He’s talked himself out of leaving before they get the chance—barely—but every second that goes by has him itching for escape. He’s such an idiot. Elsa told him to _distract_ Anna, not seduce her. She’d trusted him. Anna’s reputation is in his hands, and he’d been so reckless, like it didn’t even matter— _anyone_ could have seen them, absolutely anyone—he blew it—

Anna’s signature five-note knock is an instant reprieve; he almost rips the door off its hinges opening it for her.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” she says, letting herself in. “You weren’t where I left you.”

“Yeah. I mean, no. I figured it was better if—I wanted to—I don’t know.” She’s not crying; there’s no redness or puffiness that would suggest that she’s _been_ crying. He tentatively lets himself hope for good news. “So… what’s the verdict?”

“No verdict.”

“She didn’t say anything?”

“No, she did, just—it’s fine. We’re fine. She’s fine with it.”

Well that definitely sounds too good to be true. “She’s fine with us necking in the hallways with my hands up your dress?”

Anna flushes and collapses backwards onto his bed, staring at the ceiling. “Well, she’d prefer us to be… discreet. She mentioned that.”

He groans. “I’m sorry, Anna. I shouldn’t’ve—I totally lost my cool. It’s just that I’ve barely seen you these past few weeks, so when I saw my chance…” He throws himself onto the mattress beside her, face down. Maybe smothering himself will fix it. “I shouldn’t have pushed,” he says, voice muffled.

“Hey, I wasn’t complaining. It’s not—you didn’t do anything I didn’t want you to.”

After a few moments, he rolls over onto his back, mirroring her. He’s careful not to look at her directly, remembering what she’d confessed to him, gosh, a month ago now— _it was easier when you couldn’t see me; it helped me get out of my own head_.

“Did she mention anything else?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Anna.”

He reaches blindly for her hand; when he finds it, she laces their fingers together without hesitation. He hears her heave out a sigh.

“She wanted to make sure that we’re… being careful. If we decide to, um. Go all the way, any time soon.”

“…Ah.”

“Do you want to?”

“Be careful?”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

He isn’t sure what he’s supposed to say. “…Do you?”

“I asked you first.”

“You’re Anna; you’re in charge.”

She squeezes his hand, more tightly than he’d have expected. “Kristoff…”

“Mmm?”

She sits up suddenly, heartbreaker-blue eyes clouded with worry as she stares down at him. “Tell me I’m not screwing this up.”

Wait, what?

“You’re n—”

“Because you’d tell me, right? If I was going too fast, or too slow, or neglecting you, or if—if I was making you feel weird again, about all of this, about living here or your job or any of it. Right?”

“Where’s this coming from?”

She bites her lip. “Nothing, nowhere, it’s just that… things are so good right now. Well, maybe not _right_ now, I know I’ve been busy with all this Christmas stuff and Elsa’s never gonna stop making fun of me now that she knows what a perv I am, but. I’m so—you make me _so happy._ ” His chest clenches painfully at the sheer earnestness in her voice. He’s never been that person before, for someone. Even now, months into it, the depth and breadth of the feeling manages to take him by surprise sometimes. “And I want… that, with you, I want it, um—a lot—but. I don’t want things to change.”

He tries not to be offended. “You think I’d treat you different, after?”

“What? No! Not—not really. Just. This feels really right to me, and I know what I want, and I _want_ to trust my instincts, but.” She averts her gaze. “They’ve been wrong before, is the thing. But you have great instincts; you’re all, I don’t know, intuitive and outdoorsy and—”

 _“Outdoorsy?”_ he echoes skeptically, not sure what that has to do with anything. She’s worked herself up so much she’s almost hyperventilating. “Also, breathe.”

She breathes.

He waits.

“I trust your judgment, is what I’m saying,” she eventually chokes out.

He sits up, too, wanting to be on the same level as her when he speaks: “You’re not screwing this up. Nothing’s going to change—or, if it does, it’ll change for the better. Because good things happen when you’re in charge, okay? That’s why I want you to be.”

She laughs a little and wipes at the corners of her eyes; he pretends not to notice. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. In fact—we can start right now, if you like.” He reaches for the top button of his shirt, letting his voice go loose and goofy to coax another laugh out of her. “Getting caught by your sister, y’know, _really_ did it for me, so—”

“Okay, okay,” she giggles, stilling his hand.

“You just say the word, Anna,” he says, serious again. “I’ll be there. Whenever you’re ready.”

She kisses him once, just at the corner of his mouth. “Soon. Alright?”

Alright.

* * *

Anna _does_ blow Elsa’s mind on her birthday.

She takes the whole day off from festival-planning—less than a week, now!—and takes Elsa horseback riding, just the two of them. She knows for a fact Elsa’d never learned; that the older she got, the more she shied away from living creatures. (Of course, Anna understands _now_ that everyone had been concerned about what might happen if a horse had spooked, or if Elsa had. Which: fair, probably, but… ouch.) But she also knows that Elsa always wanted to. For years, some of Anna’s best chances to see Elsa outside of supervised meals had been catching glimpses of her envious face in the window as Anna rode around the practice ring.

They start simple, Elsa feeding the castle’s gentlest mare carrots and sugar cubes from her bare hand—learning to be in the animal’s space peacefully. But by the end of the day, she’s _beaming,_ confidently cantering across the courtyard, and making optimistic plans about the two of them taking riding trips together when the weather warms up. Anna’s never seen her look quite so thrilled before; quite so capable. Not about something that has nothing to do with her powers. It suits her.

When they get inside, there’s cake—what, like Anna _wasn’t_ going to make sure there’s cake?—and she, Olaf and Kristoff pretty much nail the extremely silly birthday song she forced them (well, Kristoff) to help her write, and for a few shining moments, nothing can touch them. Not their pasts, not their sadness, not the snow outside.

It’s perfect.

She can make it stay perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elsa's birthday song (and the title of this chapter) inspired by the [Ricky Baker birthday song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oqWhQHImHGE) from Hunt for the Wilderpeople, which—if you have not seen this movie, please watch this movie.


	5. it never goes away, but it all works out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for nightmares and panic attacks, but nothing terribly explicit.

Anna hasn’t slept in days.

Well, that’s being a little dramatic. She’s _slept,_ she’s snuck in a few cat naps and she’s definitely, y’know, gone to bed for at least a little bit, but. There’s just been so much to do, especially now that all these events she’s spent a month planning are finally happening, like the choral concert and the charity drive and the trimming of all the trees. Plus all of the things she’d be doing anyway—she’s not going to stop reading The Wander Boys serials with Olaf just because she’s got a few other things on her plate. It’s been good. It’s been so, so good.

And it would still be good if it weren’t for the fact that Christmas Eve-Eve ends up being the coldest night of the year.

The winter, thus far, has been fairly mild: just chilly enough for snow, but not so cold it’s been truly unpleasant. Anna hadn’t minded it—had honestly been able to enjoy it, even.

Not anymore.

Tonight, a frigid wind rips brutally across the fjord, glacial air seeping into every nook and cranny of the castle. Anna’s been suppressing her shivers and chattering teeth all day, trying to convince her body that everything is fine and it isn’t, y’know, _dying,_ but… it doesn’t seem to want to listen. Her joints creak and her breath is short, and nothing proves engaging enough to serve as a suitable distraction—not her eleventh-hour checks with everyone in town, not finally wrapping the last of the presents, not even spending time with her family. Elsa’s eyes light up when Anna agrees to stick around after supper and help teach Olaf to play Scum, but Anna’s heart isn’t in it; after her fourth straight loss, she decides to head to bed. Maybe she can bury herself under blankets and sleep it off.

There’s a healthy fire going in the hearth—Gerda knows Anna likes her bedroom warm, these days—but she stokes it anyway, feeding it more logs until it’s roaring.

It’s only when she’s in bed with her eyes squeezed shut that she realizes the error in her logic: trying to sleep it off when she’s this amped, body confused and so far past tired she’s on her fourteenth wind at least, has given her nowhere to go with her excess energy. She tosses and turns, caught in a vague half-doze where she loses track of what’s real, anxieties and memories twisting her mind about in a sinister maze. It’s summer. It’s Christmas. It’s cold.

Why is it always so cold?

Anna’s force-fed fire burns hot and fast, using itself up and resolving to embers long before she’s ready. She could build it back up, but that would mean leaving the bed, and she can’t leave the bed. She can’t move. She can’t _breathe._ Her lungs feel like they’re encased in frost, like they can’t inflate all the way. Eventually, she stops trying, because—any breathing is good breathing, right? Even if it’s shallow. Even if it’s frantic. Did she ever follow up with Mr. Falk about getting extra apples from his orchard? Did she settle the bill with the cobbler? No, the shoemaker, the cobbler is made of the apples which is—no, wait. She was right the first time. Unless…?

She so exhausts herself she finally drops off, or at least she thinks she does, but it feels impossible to be sure. Maybe she’s been dreaming this whole time. Maybe she’s still iced solid on the fjord, and everything _else_ has been a dream. The world seems floaty and distant and shadow-covered, now, and that had been when Kristoff had gotten _really_ scared, last time. When she’d stopped shivering and wanted only to sleep; when her body wouldn’t let her move anymore. She can’t move anymore. The cold is bone-deep, weighing her down, keeping her pinned.

The ice works its way around her body slowly—from her chest outward, just like always. She doesn’t dare open her eyes to make sure; the proof of it would be too terrifying, too painful. She can’t see it happen again. She won’t. But she knows that’s what it is: her limbs turning immobile and glittering, a statue of crystal-clear ice. Until it covers every inch of her. Until there’s no more of her left.

Fully frozen over, she splinters, cracks, and falls to pieces.

—Anna wakes up desperate and gasping, like a sword’s sunken through her chest.

Alive.

Awake.

Okay.

… not okay.

Her room is still as a tomb, the fire having long since died, and—she can’t be here. She _can’t._

She bolts before she can manage to talk herself out of it, this time.

Partway down the first hallway, she realizes what a mistake it was not to put on any other layers; the castle is downright artic, the halls far from any fires that may still be burning. But if she turns back now she won’t leave her room again, and—she promised Sven. Well, sort of, anyway.

She powers onwards. Into the guest wing, and up the back stairs, and all the way to Kristoff’s room—only to hesitate outside his door.

Should she knock? Would he even hear it, if she did? She can only get so loud, in the middle of the night. And there’s actually _guests_ in the guest wing this month, all of the people who took her up on her offer of an open door. Maybe she should just go in. But—it’s the _middle of the night._ That would be… well, rude, definitely, and an invasion of his privacy, probably, and what is she even doing here? She shouldn’t wake him. Just because she can’t sleep doesn’t mean Kristoff shouldn’t get to.

 _He’d want you to knock,_ the Sven in her head says, and she lets out a small, frustrated groan.

She’ll just… take a look. She’ll open his door, and sneak a peek at him, and that will be enough.

The hinges make a loud, gratingly wheezy creak as she pushes the door open, and her skull makes an equally loud _thunk_ as she tips it into the door frame in disgruntled defeat. Way too noisy. She can already see him sitting up out of the corner of her eye, woken by her racket.

“Anna?” he asks, voice muzzy with sleep, like he’s not quite sure if she’s really standing there or if he’s dreaming her. His hair is mussed and there are pillow-creases on his cheek and he’s so irresistible it actually hurts. “What’s wrong?”

She shakes her head against the wood, refusing to move from the doorway. _Nothing’s_ wrong, that’s the problem. She’s freaking out over—what? The weather? Christmas? Please. She’s pathetic.

“Sweetheart, hey—” he says, crossing the room, and her eyes get misty because he almost never calls her that; just when she’s made him sad, somehow. It’s only when he pulls her into the sturdy wall of his chest, immovable and solid, that she realizes exactly how hard she’s shaking.

“Bad dream,” she whispers, hating how silly it sounds. His arms snake around her shoulders.

“Yeah, I bet,” he murmurs, not an ounce of judgment in it. Just—just soft compassion, like this is all perfectly understandable, and not a major inconvenience. “C’mere; you’re freezing.”

They move to the bed, Anna quickly discovering that the sheets are still warm. She curls into a tight ball atop the indent his body left behind, hunkering down beneath the heavy duvet and drawing her knees to her chest. The pillows smell like him; when he comes around behind her, flush against her back, she feels completely enveloped.

Okay. She’s okay. She can be okay.

She takes a shuddering breath, and then another, trying to find equilibrium so she doesn’t break down crying over nonsense.

He hooks his chin over the slope of her shoulder. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I just want to sleep.” She’s aiming for brusque, but it comes out plaintive, desperate. Near tears.

“Anna…” He sounds shattered. She _hates_ this, she—

He doesn’t ask, or wait to be told. He just starts singing, brushing her bangs from her eyes before tracing the worry line between her brows.

His song this time isn’t quite a lullaby; it’s a ballad, folksy and melancholy and self-critical, like he thinks it’s his fault she’s like this. And she wants to argue the point with him, but she doesn’t want to interrupt; doesn’t want to break the spell he’s carefully weaving for her. She does her best to calm down, relax into his touch, and tune out the rest. To focus on him. Just him.

The sensation of his fingertip stroking gently down her face gradually reduces the volume in her brain from cacophony to fuzzy, distant static. She settles deeper into his arms, drifting and dozy; her pulse rate slows for what feels like the first time all month. _This_ is what’s real: the somber baritone of his voice; the caress of his hand; the body heat radiating off of him in waves. She can leave the rest in the past, where it belongs. Whatever’s left, she’ll do tomorrow.

Her thoughts scatter like so many snowflakes on the wind, and she lets them go.

* * *

“Anna. Anna, hey.”

She groans and burrows deeper into the warmth she’s cuddled against, ignoring the voice talking to her and the feeling of someone shaking her shoulder. It’s _early;_ she can tell even with her eyes closed that it’s still dark outside. And she’s so comfortable…

“C’mon, don’t fall asleep again,” the voice goads. She dismisses it—she’s not ‘falling asleep again,’ she’s _sleeping._ Actively. Still.

“Five mr’minutes,” she slurs, moving to hide her head under the pillow, but the sound of laughter slows her down, and then she’s being kissed—on her neck, her cheek, the back of her ear. She smiles into the bedding. _Kristoff,_ her drowsy brain informs her belatedly. The voice is Kristoff; she’s in his room. He kept the nightmares away.

“I already gave you five more minutes. And ten minutes, before that. You’re turning me into a pushover, here, princess.”

At _princess_ she reluctantly blinks bleary eyes open to evaluate his expression—that doesn’t sound like it can be right. She’d remember. Probably. “You did?”

“We’ve had this conversation twice already,” he confirms, and there’s no tell-tale twitching at the corner of his mouth to show he’s teasing her. They’ve definitely had this conversation twice already. Shoot.

She sighs and sits up, stealing a proper good morning kiss on her way before succumbing to a jaw-cracking yawn. “Okay, okay. What time is it?”

“Just after six. But it’s Christmas Eve—people will be looking for you, and Elsa’ll have a coronary if they find you here.” Still heavy with sleep, she can feel herself listing to one side; Kristoff shifts so she collides gently with his outstretched arm instead of falling back into the pillows. “Nope. C’mon. Under your own power, lazy bones.”

Grumbling with every movement, she scoots off his bed, hissing when her feet meet the cold floor. “This is cruel and unusual,” she informs him, grabbing his robe off a hook and putting it on. She swims in it. Still—“Also, I’m borrowing this.” Her eyes light up when she spots his slippers, only to fall into a glare when she processes just how massive they are. There’s no way she can wear those; she’ll just have to tough it out. He watches her from the bed, covers pooled around his lap, and just the sight of him—his pajama top adorably askew across his broad chest; the outline of his thighs under the blanket—is so enticing she has to physically stop herself from crawling right back into the bed. “You’re not going to walk me?”

He stretches, lays back, and smirks. “Why should I? _I_ don’t have to be up yet. Maybe I’ll go back to sleep.”

She gasps. “You wouldn’t.”

(He’s acting so—so _normal._ Not fretting over whether she’s feeling better, or interrogating her about last night, or getting all weird about the fact that she’s here at all. He’s just being wonderful, annoying, regular Kristoff, and she hadn’t known how much she’d needed that until he gave it to her.)

“I dunno…” he sing-songs, “it’s awful cozy in here, and breakfast isn’t for hours.”

“You’re the worst. I hate you.”

“Can’t hear you,” he says, closing his eyes. “I’m sleeping.”

She lets out a playful, annoyed _ugh_ and walks out the door.

—right into one of the new servant girls, carrying a basket of laundered bedsheets in her arms.

“Oh!”

Anna is very, very aware of the fact that she’s wearing Kristoff’s clothes, leaving his room barefoot before dawn, in front of a person she hardly knows, and that this is _exactly_ what Elsa told her not to do. “Um. Good morning!” she says brightly, racking her brain for the name she’s certain is in there somewhere. Something floral. Rose? Violet? “Guess I’m not the only one who got an early start today. I’m just—so excited it’s Christmas Eve! I couldn’t sleep, so I came to get Kristoff, but knocking on his door wasn’t working because he’s, y’know, _such_ a heavy sleeper, so I had to go—um. Shake him.” Criminy. Why does she talk? “But that’s enough of my babbling, I’ll let you get back to work. Lily, right?”

The girl—and she really is just a girl, maybe three or four years younger than Anna—smiles, surprised. “That’s right, Highness.”

“Thank you for all of your hard work, Lily. It’s—really special to me, to have the castle so full of people; especially at the holidays. I just want you to know I appreciate everything you’re doing.”

“Well I—you’re welcome?”

“Of course! Now I’d better go wake Elsa up, now that I’ve… woken up Kristoff. Because that’s all I was doing. Have a good day!” Anna hollers over her shoulder, already speed-walking in the opposite direction.

Elsa’s going to _kill_ her.

* * *

Elsa doesn’t kill her, but Anna gets the distinct impression that might be because they have public appearances to make and her conspicuous absence (and/or mysterious premature demise) would raise too many questions. She could swear she feels Elsa’s eyes on her all day: during their speech in the courtyard, and throughout the massive luncheon feast in the great hall, and even during the ice sculpting contest—though Elsa’s supposed to be judging the _art_ and not, y’know, her beloved sister.

“Your face looks funny,” Olaf informs her, and she startles as she realizes she’s been staring into space, fretting.

“Oh yeah? Funny like this?” she asks, pulling the most gruesome, silly monster face she can, and Olaf breaks into delighted giggles.

“No, not—that was excellent, by the way—but no. Funny like sad. Are you upset Christmas is almost over?” he wonders, eyes wide and guileless. “Because it’s not. There’s still so much Christmas left! It doesn’t even really start until tomorrow, you know.”

Anna opens her mouth to respond, but comes up short. Everything’s gone without a hitch so far, every moment brimming with laughter and people and energy. She’s probably talked to every citizen in town; she’s almost certainly eaten her own weight in pies. It’s exactly what she’d wanted. It’s her perfect Christmas.

She’s having fun, isn’t she?

“I’m not sad, Olaf. Just distracted.”

“Oh. What are you thinking about?”

She smiles at him. “Absolutely nothing important. Come on!” She takes his twiggy hand in hers, and they plunge back into the festivities.

It’s strange—for all that she’s been thinking about and investing in this day for weeks, it’s all the things she didn’t plan for and couldn’t have anticipated that end up being her favorite parts. Like Olaf’s off-the-wall guesses at what perfectly normal sculptures are supposed to be. Or Kristoff’s genuine whoop of joy when Nils the milliner gets first prize. (Are they friends? Does Kristoff just—have friends, and not realize it? She finds this impossibly charming, even as she’s shaking her head in bewilderment.) Or the look on Elsa’s face after she’s reinforced the ice in the harbor so everyone can skate on the fjord—the one that’s all surprised and soft and tender.

 _Oh,_ she thinks, rolling her eyes at herself. _Duh._

Still, she can’t help but wince a little at the way Elsa smirks at her when they finally have a moment of near-privacy, taking their seats for the pageant the schoolchildren have put together.

“I know, I know,” Anna says, hoping to fend off the worst of the _I told you so_ ’s about this morning. “I had one job.”

“It’s fine, Anna, really. I have a plan.”

“A—what?” Anna does a double-take, but Elsa just smiles demurely. “A plan? What plan?”

“You’ll see.”

“What _plan?_ Elsa!”

“Shhh, it’s starting.”

Elsa absolutely refuses to elaborate during the caroling, or the fireworks, or when they finally get home. So. Fine. _Fine._ Anna goes to sleep in her own bed, and she stays there all night, and it’s perfectly restful and lovely, _thankyouverymuch._

* * *

Somehow, despite everything, Kristoff gets his simple Christmas.

The sisters sent the whole staff home the prior evening, encouraging everyone to spend the day with their families. Still, he’s surprised when after he meets Anna at the bottom stair, they go right past the dining room—where several of the long-term guests are happily eating leftovers from yesterday’s feast—and walk instead to the kitchens. There they find Elsa elbow-deep in a bowl of dough, cursing softly, covered in a fine dusting of flour.

“Trouble with the cinnamon rolls?” Anna asks archly, and Elsa glares at her.

“You can mock, or you can help. Do you want breakfast or not?”

Kristoff gets placed on juicing duty (“It’s a no-brainer, have you _seen_ your arms?”), and Anna puts on an apron and whips up filling and glaze like it’s nothing (“I had a sweet tooth and nothing but time on my hands for thirteen years; did you seriously think I didn’t know how to bake?”) and it’s just—nice. Intimate, and quiet, and nothing like Kristoff had feared. But he finally sees Anna’s logic, just as she’d promised: they got all of the pomp and circumstance out of the way yesterday, so that today they could all just be together.

He lets the sisters’ newfound joy in bickering wash over him. Olaf wanders in when the rolls are just starting to rise in the oven (“Is this what happiness smells like?!”) and they all sit down to eat together at the table in the corner, still in their pajamas, and he’s never had this, not as long as he can remember. There’s nowhere he has to be; no job he has to do.

He’s home for Christmas.

* * *

“Okay!” Anna announces sometime in the early afternoon, when they’ve all recovered from their food comas. “I think we’ll all agree that I’ve been _very_ patient—”

“Would we ever agree that?” Kristoff wonders, not exactly sotto voce, and Elsa snickers. Anna glares at them both. _Rude._

“—and I really think it’s time for presents now. Please? Please please please?”

“I suppose…” Elsa teases, but Anna doesn’t let it bother her.

“Great! Last one to the den is a rotten egg!” she says, racing through the halls to where they’ve been stashing presents all week. Some of them are huge, and very weirdly-shaped, and she has _theories_ about what’s inside. She’s ready and holding Kristoff’s messily-wrapped parcel out for him by the time he, Elsa and Olaf catch up.

“Me first, huh?” he asks, grinning, and she shrugs.

“Elsa’s fresh off a birthday, she can wait. And Olaf specifically asked _not_ to go first.”

“The anticipation is the best part,” Olaf explains, sagely.

“Okay. _Okay,”_ Kristoff repeats with a laugh, when she shakes the package enticingly at him. “I’m opening it already, jeez.” He takes the present from her and tears into the paper, revealing her hard work: a thick, cable knit scarf of bright turquoise. His jaw drops, just a little.

“I know it’s not your usual color palette, but—it’ll bring out your eyes,” she says. _It matches mine,_ she doesn’t say.

“Anna… you made this?” he asks, unfurling it to its full length. It’s kind of huge, admittedly, but _he’s_ huge, so she wasn’t really sure when to stop. “When did you have time?”

She pouts. “Of course I made it!” She leaves it there, because the answer to his other question is _almost every night of the last several weeks when I was supposed to be sleeping_ and she doesn’t think he’d appreciate it. “Gerda taught me to knit a long time ago. She said I have _idle hands,_ which—I never got that one; don’t they need to be busy? To knit? But anyway. I figured you could wear it up the mountain. Do you like it?”

“It’s great,” he says, admiring it—squooshing the yarn between his fingers. “I love it.”

“Soft, right?”

“Very,” he agrees, and he’s doing that little not-a-smirk where she knows he’s humoring her, but whatever. He loves it. He said he loves it. “So, my turn to give next, right?” he asks, winding the scarf loosely around his neck, and her heart soars.

“That was always Mama’s rule,” Elsa confirms from where she’s positioned herself on the sofa, throw pillow tucked against her stomach. “Round robin.” Anna goes to sit next to her, mostly to stop herself from climbing Kristoff like a tree.

“Alright. Well, since we’re on the subject… Olaf, this is for you,” Kristoff says, going to the pile and handing the snowman a long, thin box. There’s a tricky moment where Kristoff has to help him with the paper—twig hands aren’t very conducive to present-opening, it seems—but then Olaf pulls a small pair of ice harvesting tongs from a bed of tissue paper.

He gasps. “Does this mean I can come into the mountains with you?”

 _“Maybe._ If you promise to follow directions. But I figured—I starting using my first set when I was around your age, so…”

“Twenty-three weeks?” Olaf questions, voice dubious. Then his eyes light up. “That’s amazing! Did you know the average human infant is only just learning to sit up on his own at that age? You must be freakishly strong.”

Kristoff starts stammering a reply, and Elsa’s trying to catch Anna’s eye all _why does Olaf know so much about babies, who is he overhearing that he thinks he needs to learn about babies_ and that’s a very good point, actually, Anna’s wary about that as well, but. Mostly she’s trying not to cry. Which is silly, she knows; obviously _she_ got Olaf a present, so it shouldn’t be a big deal at all that Kristoff did. Only… when she’d wrapped hers the other day, she’d almost signed the card _Love, Anna and Kristoff,_ just in case. But then she hadn’t been sure if they were there yet, if they were an _Anna and Kristoff_ sort of couple who did things like give joint gifts. So she’d signed it _Love, Anna_.

Apparently, she needn’t have worried.

“Anyway, it’s my turn!” Olaf declares, tiring of his conversation with Kristoff about developmental milestones. He waddles over to the pile, emerging with a lumpy sack. “Elsa, this is for you.”

Elsa keeps a carefully straight face as she reaches in and pulls out her gift: lemons.

An entire bag full of lemons.

“Thank you, Olaf. They’re… lovely?”

He nods, serious. “Sometimes when you’re upset Gerda will say _Well, Majesty, when life gives you lemons…”—_ his Gerda impression is hilariously spot-on—“But then she never gives you any! So I figured maybe you needed them.”

Elsa’s lips twitch with the effort not to laugh. Anna can see Kristoff actually biting his knuckle out of the corner of her eye; she gives him a warning glare. “That’s very thoughtful of you, Olaf,” she says pointedly.

“Very,” Elsa agrees, and if her voice is a little strained probably Anna is the only one who notices. “Anna, I’m afraid I can’t lift your present all that gracefully. You might want to just open it where it is,” she says, gesturing to a wide, flat package leaning against the wall. It’s taller than Anna is.

“Golly. I know I said I wanted open doors, but I didn’t mean literally,” Anna jokes. “Did you seriously—?”

“Open it, you goof,” Elsa laughs.

Anna tears into the wrapping paper, revealing a broad expanse of white. It takes her a second to figure out what she’s looking at. “A blank canvas is still a metaphor,” she can’t help but point out.

“It’s our new family portrait. Or—it’s going to be. I’ve commissioned an artist for a sitting in the spring, once the summit is over.”

There’s a lump in her throat Anna can’t quite swallow around. “Elsa…”

(It’s just that—there hasn’t been a painting done of the two of them together since Anna still had her baby teeth. They’ve been solo portraits in different frames for more than a decade, now, like—like they didn’t even live in the same house, like they were strangers. And now they’re a family. _A family portrait.)_

“The council’s been nagging me that I should have gotten one of myself following my coronation,” Elsa says, playing it off. “Since I already had to go through the trouble, I thought it would be nice to get one for all of us.”

Anna pauses at the wording. “All of us? Even—” _don’t say Kristoff, don’t, that’s way too obvious_ “—Sven?”

Elsa smiles. “Even Sven.”

Unable to stop the tears from falling, Anna launches herself into her sister’s arms, tackling her into the couch. “Thank you, Elsa, thank you—”

“It’s nothing, really,” Elsa murmurs, but she’s crying too, Anna can tell.

Eventually Anna manages to get ahold of herself and wipes at her eyes. “Well there’s no way I’m following that up with my present to you, so. Olaf! Here, hold on.”

She grabs his from the pile and hands it to him. It may not be the most expensive gift of the day, but she’s feeling pretty confident about this one.

He happily reads the card aloud, all words they’ve practiced— _To Olaf, Love Anna._ When he tears into the package, his eyes _light. up._

“Really?” Olaf breathes, awed.

“A clipboard?” Kristoff asks, considerably more skeptical.

“A clipboard! Of my very own!” Olaf cheers, rapturous.

Anna giggles, proud of herself. “Yeah, buddy. All yours.” She’d noticed the way he’s been admiring Kai’s all month, following their steward around as he got the castle in ship-shape.

“I’m going to get so much _work_ done now,” Olaf continues, sounding pleased as punch. He hugs the clipboard to his body; it’s half his height. “This will do wonders for my productivity. And, I can do this!” He retrieves the next present from the pile, balancing it on the clipboard like a tray as he offers it up to Kristoff. “For you, sir.”

“Thank you, my good man,” Kristoff nods, tearing into it. He pulls out a pair of misshapen somethings connected by string. “I love it! What, uh… what is it?”

“They’re candles,” Olaf says, unfazed by Kristoff’s confusion. “I made them myself; Gerda taught me how.”

“Very practical,” Kristoff notes.

“I wanted to give you something you could use,” Olaf nods, and Anna’s heart melts.

“Smart. In fact,” Kristoff says, pulling out the next parcel, “I was thinking something similar when I got this. Elsa?”

She unwraps it fastidiously, like she’s planning to save the paper for later. After about an age and a half, she unearths a beautiful leather portfolio—gorgeously made, and clearly hand-bound.

“I waterproofed it,” Kristoff says, nervously filling the silence when Elsa doesn’t react. “So—so you can put your important papers in there. When you brainstorm?”

Anna’s heart is a puddle on the floor.

He clears his throat, uncomfortable. “Is—do you—?”

“It’s wonderful, Kristoff,” Elsa whispers. “Sorry, I—” She finally looks up at him; gives him a watery smile. “Thank you. Really.”

Kristoff’s _blushing._ (Anna’s starting to get a little envious, actually—did Kristoff seriously think of a better present for Elsa than she did? She’s going to have to majorly step up her game next year. She let the birthday thing distract her.) “No problem,” he mumbles.

Elsa chuckles. “I suppose great minds really do think alike, because I was inspired by something similar.” She stands up, making space for herself as she brings her hands together. “Ready, Olaf? I’ve been practicing this for ages.”

She wiggles her fingers, waves her arms, and concentrates. A series of icy forms take shape in the air—no bigger than Anna’s hand, and no two alike. Anna watches as they etch themselves with intricate filigree, letters and sample words with corresponding art. _A is for Arendelle. B is for buzzing bees. C is for carrots._

“You said your flurry kept getting the paper ones soggy,” Elsa explains as Olaf takes them as delicately as he can.

“They’re so pretty!” he enthuses. He goes through the flashcards one by one, oohing and aahing. “Summer! My favorite,” he smiles when he gets to S. When he reaches the end, he places the set carefully atop his clipboard, then retrieves a parcel. “Anna’s turn!”

Anna braces herself for fruit. “I’m ready. What’ve you got for me?”

He hands her the package with a flourish. Carefully, Anna uncovers… a blank piece of parchment.

_I wanted to give you something you could use._

Did he really just get her random paper? That doesn’t seem very Olaf. She looks up at him, at the way his buck-toothed smile is just a little more conspicuous and cajoling than usual. Like he’s willing her to get a joke.

Wait a minute.

She looks to the lemons piled in the corner of the sofa; the candles on the floor by Kristoff’s feet. Somewhere in her head, a bell is ringing.

“These are clues,” she mumbles, putting the pieces together. Olaf’s grin breaks even wider, giving her confidence that she’s figured it out. “These are clues!”

She takes the parchment over to the fireplace, biting back a guffaw at the way Elsa and Kristoff yelp in objection, like she’s just going to toss Olaf’s present into the flames. Instead, she stretches the parchment wide and holds it close to the heat, crowing in triumph when dark marks appear on the seemingly-blank paper.

“I knew it! You used _lemon juice_ as invisible ink, which only _fire_ reveals—like in the Wander Boys! That’s so clever, Olaf, wow.” She watches as a picture emerges; it looks almost like a cross-section of the castle. That, or a whale singing opera in a corn field, but that seems a little less likely. “Is this… a treasure map?”

“Yes! Can I take you? Can we go?” Olaf asks, bouncing from one snowball foot to the other in excitement.

She laughs. “Not yet; we’re not done opening all the presents.”

“But I—”

“The anticipation is the best part, remember?” Elsa reminds him, and he heaves a long-suffering sigh.

“I guess. But hurry up—I wanna see your faces!”

“You heard the man,” Kristoff chuckles. “Better get moving and give Elsa her present.”

“Okay, but—it’s underwhelming now that I know what you got me,” Anna warns her sister, picking up the box on her way back from the fireplace before sitting down next to her.

Elsa does the careful thing with the paper again, peeling up the corners like the house will burn down if she just rips into it, and Anna almost vibrates out of her seat.

 _Finally_ she takes off the lid, showing the contents: a pair of leather boots, the suede finish a light grey bordering on blue. (Anna had remembered to pay the cobbler, after all.) “I was thinking—y’know, what’s the opposite of gloves?” she babbles, by way of explanation. “And now that you’ve started horseback riding, I figured you needed the proper footwear. Or, for any kind of excursion, really. Now you can go on adventures!”

“Thank you, Anna. That’s really thoughtful,” Elsa says, looking shy and touched and delighted. She smiles, and tentatively threads their fingers together. “I hope you won’t be offended if I don’t plan on going anywhere anytime soon, though.”

Anna’s lip wobbles, but her smile holds steady. “Not offended at all,” she promises.

Elsa pulls her a little closer into a half-hug, so Anna’s head rests on her shoulder. “I suppose you know which one’s yours,” she says to Kristoff, nodding towards the final two gifts: a normal-sized box, and an extremely suspicious hulking mass of paper of indistinguishable shape.

He laughs self-consciously and pulls the box towards himself, opening it without fuss. Inside he finds—“…A dress?” He looks to Elsa, sardonic: “It’s not exactly my size.”

“It’s a change of clothes for Anna,” Elsa says, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I figure it can stay in your room, for emergencies. So you don’t scandalize any more of the staff.”

“Elsa!” Anna wails, pulling back from their hug plenty scandalized herself.

“What emergencies?” asks Olaf.

Elsa laughs, but it’s reedy and nervous now. Right. Olaf’s newfound baby-knowledge. Anna jumps in: “Like that time I fell into the fjord, Olaf. Or when I got all muddy playing in the pig pen with Henry. Or the other time I fell into the fjord.”

“Sneaky way to get Anna an extra present,” Kristoff points out quietly to Elsa, sounding more impressed than put out.

“Guilty as charged. But you may want to keep digging.”

He fishes around the bottom of the box and unearths just about the last thing Anna would have expected: a pocket watch she hasn’t seen in years, but recognizes on sight.

Kristoff stares at it, eyes wide.

“It was our grandfather’s,” Elsa says softly. “Father never wore it, and I’m afraid I don’t don waistcoats nearly often enough for it to be of much use to me. It’s high time we had another man in the family to keep the tradition going.” Anna buries her face in Elsa’s neck, overcome; she has no idea how Kristoff’s not crying. “I thought it could be a reminder. That—that things take time.”

A shaky intake of breath clues Anna into the fact that Kristoff might be crying after all. “I’ll take care of it,” he promises, voice hoarse. “I’ll take such good care of it, Elsa, you have no idea.”

“I know you will.”

Anna sobs noisily into Elsa’s shoulder, and doesn’t stop until a large hand gently pulls her away. She blinks to find Kristoff smiling at her; his eyes are red.

“Want your present?” he asks, jutting his chin at the monstrosity in the corner.

Anna sniffles, and nods.

“You wanna help me out, pal?” she asks Olaf as she gets up and walks over. “There’s an awful lot of wrapping, here.”

Between the two of them, they make short work of the paper—underneath, Anna finds a wooden high-backed bench. Homemade, with hand-done carvings of crocuses on the arms and at the top. It’s very new to this world, she can tell; she can smell the sawdust and fresh lacquer.

“Wait, what?” she breathes.

Kristoff rubs the back of his head. “You… you used to visit me a lot, in the stables. When I was brushing Sven or doing inventory or whatever. But after a while, you stopped, and I realized it was because there wasn’t anywhere for you to sit in there. So I measured the space—you know that nook, between the side gate and the feed bags?—and, uh. I made this to fit.”

She’s not going to cry again. She’s _not._

So instead she throws herself at him, peppering his face with kisses. He catches her, and laughs, and they stay that way until Anna remembers that they aren’t alone, and Olaf has been _very_ patient.

“Sorry,” she says, righting herself and brushing off non-existent lint from her dressing gown. “Shall we?”

* * *

Olaf’s scavenger hunt leads them all over the castle—to the east tower, where Kai has helped him pot a few plants by the tall windows (“So we can have summer all year!”), and to the nest of baby birds he found in the eaves of the front gate (“Shouldn’t they have flown south? Should we get them a blanket?”), and to the hall in the west wing where, when the sun hits the stained glass window just right, it casts rainbows all over the floor (“It’s like you’re walking on the sky!”). They run into several citizens as they wander—all in all, Kristoff thinks they take the sight of their monarchs in pajamas pretty well. The last stop Olaf’s planned is the portrait gallery, where a mouse has chewed a hole in the baseboards into a silhouette that looks uncannily like Olaf himself (“It’s like I have a portrait, too! Oooh, and now we’re getting another one next year—then I’ll have _two_ portraits!”).

Kristoff experiences it all in a daze. He can’t stop fiddling with the watch in his pocket, working his thumb back and forth over the smooth silver face. He hasn’t wound it yet; doesn’t trust his clumsy, shaking fingers with its delicate inner workings.

 _I’m not planning on handing you anything that you haven’t earned,_ she’d said.

It’s a family heirloom. It belonged to a _king._

He watches as Anna whispers something in Elsa’s ear. Elsa nods, and then loudly states that it’s time for lunch, and would Olaf like to be her sous chef? He happily agrees, and Anna tells them “We’ll catch up!” before coming to Kristoff’s side.

She reaches up, cupping his cheeks in her hands. “You okay?”

He closes his eyes and drops his forehead to hers. Nods there, so she can feel the movement. This has been in the top three happiest, most emotional days of his life, and she wants to know if he’s okay?

She takes his hand. “C’mere; I want to show you something.” They walk together to the other side of the room, where a large painting of an imposing man has a prime spot. “This is my grandfather, Runeard. We never met him; he died when my father wasn’t much more than a kid. Our grandmother passed during childbirth, so Papa… sort of had to raise himself. He did the best he could with us, but I know he got overwhelmed; he didn’t have any experience to go off of. Every once in a while—especially when I was small—I’d catch him in here asking Grandpa Runeard for advice.” She pauses, thoughtful. “I guess maybe that’s where I got it from. Anyway, I’ve always liked to think that… I don’t know. That he’s had a hand in all this. That he keeps an eye out for us, wherever he is. Tips the scales when he can.” She smiles at him, tearfully. “I’m glad you have his watch now; I didn’t know Elsa was going to do that. But now—now he knows to keep an eye out for you, too.”

What else can he do but kiss her?

* * *

The mood lightens after lunch. They spend the whole day together—playing party games and teasing (“I can’t believe you gave Olaf _homework_ for Christmas”) and eating way more than they should. Elsa turns in a little after midnight, Olaf toddling after her with promises of reading her a bedtime story.

Anna remains on the bench Kristoff made her, curled against him as they watch the fire burn down to embers together. Her head is on his shoulder, their fingers entwined, and she wishes she could stay like this, just like this, for as long as she desired—a snow globe, a perfect moment held in time. She stifles a yawn, not wanting to be sleepy, not ready for this day to end.

“Tired?” he asks, and she shakes her head against him.

“No way. I could do this all night.”

He laughs. “What, sit? Very impressive.”

“It’s not even my best sport—you should see me lay down sometime,” she jokes, before she can think better of it.

She expects him to flinch, or bring up her nightmares. Instead, he blushes. “I’ll, uh, keep that in mind,” he stutters, clearing his throat, and suddenly the promise of _soon_ hangs between them once more.

For a long moment, they sit together in comfortable quiet.

“I know you’re going to say I don’t have to,” she murmurs, “but I wanted to say thank you. This has been—a really, really good day, and I’m so grateful you were a part of it. I’m so glad you’re here.”

He presses a kiss to the top of her head. “Well, thanks for the invite.”

She hums happily and snuggles in closer for a second, like she could soak up his essence like a sponge just by pressing against him. Her eyes close, to better savor the moment—warm and cozy and everything she’s ever wanted, a flawless woodcut holiday tableau…

“—Anna.”

“What?” she grouches, not appreciating the way he’s jostling her. Why is he jostling her? She’s _comfy_ —

“You were falling asleep.”

She considers saying _was not,_ but as she blinks her eyes open and finds it hard to adjust even to the low light, maybe the _tiniest_ amount of drool gracing the corner of her mouth, she’s forced to concede the point.

“Okay,” she says, standing up, “Fine. I’m doing it. I’m going to bed. All by myself, without any additional prompting.”

“Proud of you,” he says, standing as well.

She’s only two steps towards the door when he stops her in her tracks.

“Oh, hey. Before you go—I have, um. I have one more present for you. Well. Kind of for you. For both of us, really.”

Anna’s terrible, traitorous brain says _engagement ring_ and she shakes her head to clear it. She’s still fuzzy from her almost-nap, that’s all. It hasn’t even been six months; there’s no way Kristoff ‘You can’t marry a man you just met’ Bjorgman is ready to propose. And if he were, he wouldn’t do it _now,_ like an afterthought, when they’re both in their pajamas and it’s the middle of the night and she’s just drooled on him. He’d plan it.

She doesn’t even think she’d be ready to accept if he did, which is—well, that’s new. For her.

“Anna?”

Ah, jeez. “Sorry, were you…? You were saying something.”

“Little bit.”

“About giving me a present.”

“Good to see which things get your attention,” he chuckles, before his face gets apprehensive and serious. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what we’ve decided, about, um. Spending the night. And I remembered how—how you said it was easier on you, taking sight out of it. That you didn’t overthink things so much then. So…” He reaches into his pocket and produces a small strip of fabric.

A blindfold.

Her ears start ringing. She doesn’t—that’s not what she—

“For me?” she sputters.

“For _me.”_

…Oh.

Anna finds herself reeling at just the mental image. It’s such a simple thing, a piece of cloth, but… the idea of Kristoff ceding control like that, of him trusting her that much, it’s—it makes her feel ten feet tall. Solid and powerful and self-assured.

It wouldn’t, she suddenly remembers, be the first time. She recalls the moments before their first kiss, how she’d been so eager to surprise him with the sled, and how he’d just tilted his head forward, easy as that, when she’d asked to cover his eyes. She’d walked him straight into a pole and he _still_ hadn’t taken it off. Hadn’t even mentioned the possibility.

 _Good things happen when you’re in charge,_ he’d said.

It’s like a puzzle piece falling into pace.

“Would that—” She finds she has to swallow; to lick her lips. The words don’t want to come out, because she already knows the answer, and the certainty is dizzying: “Would you… _like_ that?”

The tips of his ears are bright red. _“Anna,”_ he whines, helpless.

Her back straightens and her shoulders square without her volition as she steps into his space; he slouches to meet her. She nuzzles her nose against his. “Tell me,” she murmurs—soft, but unmistakably a command and not a request. “It’s okay. Tell me how much you’d like it.”

“A lot,” he admits in a whisper, eyes squeezed shut. “I think I’d like it a lot.”

“Okay,” she says, and that’s that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand we're off to the races!
> 
> Ugh, writing nice things about Runeard gave me hives, but just remember: what goes up must come down! Chapter title/Kristoff's lullaby to Anna is "It'll All Work Out" by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers.
> 
> If you've got the time, please do drop me a comment and tell me what you thought! Hearing from you all is literally the highlight of my week.


	6. you light the world for me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand it's showtime! This chapter is, uh, mostly sex, but only because we stan two slow, tender idiots who check in with each other about every fifteen seconds.
> 
> Content labels for blindfolded sex, blow jobs, fingering, and sex without a condom. Please do not rely on the pull-out method as a way to have safer sex! Also don't take sex advice from fanfiction, but uh I feel strongly about that one.

She keeps the blindfold with her all the time, now.

At first it had been an accident; she’d put it in the pocket of her dressing gown to walk back to her room, and when she’d woken late Boxing Day morning she’d decided it was too much effort to get dressed for breakfast. So she’d thrown on her robe and—there it was. She’d kept it there all day, a hidden treasure only she knew about, and the feeling was so powerful she’s been slipping it into the pockets of her dresses every morning since.

It’s not a big deal, or anything, she just—likes it. Likes the silky way it slides between her fingers, likes having something to fidget with when she’s nervous or pensive or bored. Likes the way that every time she touches it she hears _“I think I’d like it a lot”_ and remembers Kristoff’s shoulders slumping, like supplication, like surrender, just for _her_.

She wants him, she wants him, she wants him.

Still, she’s not sure how on earth they’re meant to take the next step.

Anna knows that she needs to have pennyroyal and tansy on hand if she wants to stay safe and keep her cycle regular, but it’s not—well. That’s not something you can just _get._ She’d never be able to look Gerda in the eye again if she asked her, and she can hardly go to the town midwife like anyone else would. She’s the _princess,_ and no amount of swearing people to secrecy could stop a rumor like that from getting out. Not when she’s already been caught leaving Kristoff’s room in the mornings. And that’s the subtle option; she can’t even imagine what havoc would break loose if anyone saw them getting condoms off dock workers or something.

Plus there’s Kristoff to contend with. Ever since Elsa caught them with the mistletoe, he’s been skittish and antsy with his affection, nervous all the time about whether they’re somewhere too public, or if someone might see. And they’re on the same page about it now—or at least, Anna gets it, even if she doesn’t particularly like it—but it doesn’t make her want him any less. If anything, it’s just fuel for her worst dime-novel daydreams, prompting fantasies of rushed trysts in broom closets and stolen moments hidden by tapestries. The castle doesn’t even _have_ tapestries.

(Which—maybe it should? That seems like a pretty standard castle feature. She could look into getting one for the hallway in the north wing, where there’s a nice blank stretch of wall. Apparently there’s a whole art budget she didn’t know about, if Elsa can just commission new paintings left and right; why not have a little fun with it?)

Anyway.

She hadn’t quite realized she’d been subconsciously expecting him to make a move on New Year’s Eve until it passes, and he doesn’t. The disappointment is sour in her mouth—so, admittedly, is the _slight_ hangover—but it takes several listless, moody days for her to recognize the error in her assumption. Honestly. How many times is she going to have to have this realization before it sticks?

He’s not going to be the one who initiates. She’s Anna. She’s in charge. He _wants_ it that way; told her so himself.

The understanding that the decision is fully in her hands is a bit paralyzing, if she’s being honest. What if she doesn’t pick the right moment? How do you know when it’s upon you? In the books, it’s always obvious—celebrating a special occasion (they’ve all passed), or culminating a terrible quarrel (she’d rather not), or forced by an imminent farewell (intolerable). And real life isn’t like that, she knows that, but… he still deserves it to be romantic. What’s she supposed to tell the grandkids, _I closed my eyes, pointed at a calendar, and picked Tuesday?_

(Not that—she probably won’t tell her grandkids about the circumstances of her lost virginity, that’s not a tell-the-grandkids sort of story, but— _whatever—_ )

But on the other hand, maybe there’s romance in this, too. In deciding what she wants, naming a place and a time, and trusting that he’ll be there.

So that’s what she does.

She leaves a note for him on the seat of his sleigh, nervous it would be discovered by an overzealous maid if she just slid it under his door or hid it beneath his pillow. She uses her best penmanship, because—well she _could_ just tell him, obviously, but she likes the idea of having a keepsake. Making it a little more memorable than any old random afternoon.

And then she waits for Tuesday.

* * *

He gets dinner at Hudson’s Hearth on Tuesday night.

He’d warned Anna first—he’s not completely hopeless—but… he couldn’t go through with it any other way. The idea of sitting down to supper and like, deboning a branzino across from Elsa and _knowing_ had felt absolutely impossible. So he grabs a bowl of stew and a pint in town, and if Halima wants to make fun of him for being quiet, well, he’s always quiet. That’s nothing new.

Still, he struggles to find the courage to knock on Anna’s bedroom door.

It’s just—she’s had all week to set this up. What if there’s candles and rose petals? What if she’s in lingerie, or something, and he’s just—just _him,_ and he ruins it? Should he have gotten her flowers? Why didn’t he get her flowers? How’s he supposed to—

“Come in,” Anna calls, voice soft and melodic from inside her room.

He huffs out a laugh and opens the door. “I didn’t even knock,” he points out, relieved when he finds her in the same dress she was wearing this afternoon, sitting at her writing desk.

She smirks at him. “It’s half past; I figured you were standing there. Or—” she draws out the _r,_ playful, “For all you know, I’ve been saying that every few minutes, just to see if I could pull one over on you.”

“You haven’t,” he argues, without thinking. The smirk grows.

“Exactly how long have you been standing there?”

He clears his throat. “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

 _“Kristoff,”_ she says, rising from her chair and coming to meet him, and he doesn’t know how she does that. How she manages to say _you’re being ridiculous_ and _I love you_ and _thanks for indulging me_ all at the same time, just by sing-songing the two syllables of his name.

She stops in front of him, hands rising to cup his cheeks as her eyes search his. “Moment of truth, here, pal,” she says, smile caught somewhere between self-assured and self-deprecating. She’s already blushing, which he finds ridiculously endearing. “Are we doing this?”

“Any way you want me,” he assures her, echoing the promise he made weeks ago.

Her eyes light up. “Alright,” she whispers, backing up until her thighs hit the baseboard, like she can’t bring herself to turn away from him. “Excellent. Stay there, please. Shoes off.” He toes off his boots and socks as she climbs onto the edge of the bed, perching on her raised knees. Situated this way, she’s an inch or two taller than him. He resists the urge to step forward, to reach out and sink his fingers into the swell of her hips, pulling her close. She didn’t say to move.

“Is there anything off-limits?” she asks, staring at him intently. “Places you don’t want touched, or things you don’t want to do, or…?”

He can’t think of a single thing he wouldn’t let Anna do to him, which maybe isn’t helpful. He wracks his brains.

“I don’t want to get you pregnant,” he eventually says. “Or—I mean. Not that—? Um. I don’t want to get you pregnant _tonight?_ That is—I mean—” _Stop talking._ “Elsa would kill me,” he weakly concludes, only half-joking.

Her eyes go wide in surprise and—guilt? “No, agreed! I was supposed to—um. I _meant_ to take care of that, but then I got all invested in the plan, and I… forgot?” She bites her lip and gives him an apologetic smile. “We’ll definitely have a system for that in the future, but just for tonight, I can make sure that doesn’t happen. Anything else?”

“No,” he breathes, honestly, and the look he gets in return—fond and focused—makes his chest swell.

“Okay. C’mere.”

It’s pretty vanilla, as commands go, but he shivers all the same as he approaches the bed. She draws the blindfold from her pocket; holds it up for him.

“I’m going to put this on you, and then I’m going to unwrap you like a present. Then we’ll get you on this bed and I’ll figure out just what it is I’d like to do next. Sound good?”

He nods, jaw slack. (He’s—learning his way around this increasingly-familiar version of Anna they’re discovering together. The one who’s calm, and steady, and sure in her demands. He wonders if she’d had to practice, if she spent time rehearsing this little speech in the mirror, or if he just brings it out in her. Can’t decide which idea he finds more appealing.)

“Use your words, handsome.”

“Sounds—sounds good,” he affirms hoarsely. After a moment’s hesitation, he adds, “Your Highness.”

She makes a face, surprised and spasmodic—she hadn’t expected him to say that—and then her whole expression just… softens, all over. “Anna,” she corrects. “Just Anna. Okay?”

He takes a deep breath. Grins at her. “Sounds good, Anna.”

She beams back at him. “Okay. Here we go.”

The blindfold comes down over his eyes, and Kristoff can’t help but gasp. He was ready for the dark, prepared for this, but he hadn’t factored in how different it would feel, not knowing what’s about to come next. His skin is tingling in expectant anticipation of her touch; anything could happen, anything. Whatever she wants. He feels—small, maybe. Nervous?

“Lift up,” she says, and he raises his arms. Nimble fingers press at his waistband, untucking his shirt, and he tilts his chin back to avoid snagging the blindfold as she pulls the shirt up and over his head. Goosebumps erupt across his forearms and chest at the feeling of cool air hitting his skin; the back of his neck prickles.

For several long moments, nothing happens. “Anna…?” he ventures.

“Sorry. Just—appreciating the view,” she says.

His ears strain to hear the whisper of her skirt against the sheets over the sudden pounding of his heart. It’s more disorienting than he’d have thought, not having sight to rely on, and he actually balks in surprise when Anna presses her mouth against him, dotting kisses along his collarbone. He breathes in raggedly through his nose and clenches his fists, not sure what to do with himself. His innate desire to let this happen and his experience-enforced urge to monitor and control any uncertain situation war within him.

“Hey. I’ve got you,” Anna says, and the promise of her consistent stream of chatter grounds him; gives him something to hold onto. “Gonna make you feel so good; gonna take care of you.”

…huh.

It’s been a long, long time since Kristoff felt like he could let himself be taken care of. But she’s right. He’s not responsible for anything that’s going to happen tonight. He doesn’t have to think ahead. He doesn’t have to think _at all._

Tonight, all he has to do is let Anna touch him, and feel good, and she’ll take care of the rest. She’ll take care of him.

His fists unclench. Somewhere deep inside him, an oft-neglected chamber of his heart does the same.

She unbuttons the fly of his trousers, letting them fall loose around his hips, but doesn’t move to pull them down. For a wild moment he wonders if she’ll just reach inside and start jerking him off, but instead her hand disappears.

“Get up here,” she says. “Follow my voice.” He shimmies, moving to kick his pants off fully before he climbs up, but freezes at the swift, warning _“ah-ah!”_ sound she makes. “Did I say to take those off?”

She hadn’t. “You said you’d unwrap me like a present,” he protests, just to be contrary.

“Yeah. I said _I’d_ unwrap you. Don’t go stealing my thunder.”

“You’re enjoying this,” he realizes, fortified by the idea. Teasing.

Her voice, when she responds, is unexpectedly vulnerable. “…Yeah. Aren’t you?”

He wishes he could see her face.

“Yeah. Anna. _Yes._ ” To prove it, he clambers up onto the mattress, chasing the sound of her as asked. He can’t imagine he looks very sexy, lumbering limbs crawling blind, but Anna’s sharp inhalation of breath tells a different story. He moves until his shoulder hits her outstretched palm, and that’s all the warning he gets before her lips are slanting over his eagerly. It’s the first chance he’s had to kiss her all night, and he sets himself to the task with matching enthusiasm.

It’s easy to lose track of time, in the dark. He has no idea how long she keeps him like this—braced on all fours, while she kisses him, and kisses him, hands cradling his jaw. He floats untethered in the give-and-take of it, this half-awake world of Anna’s creation.

Slowly, the burn of his muscles intrudes on his concentration. He doesn’t want to stop, he’d stay like this until morning if she wanted him to, but. Once the feeling makes itself known, it’s hard for him to ignore. “Um, Anna,” he starts, before letting himself get distracted by her tongue.

“Mm?”

“My, um. My shoulders are starting to ache? A little.”

“Oh!” She pulls away, and he finds himself immediately disoriented. Without her touching him, he has no idea where he is. “Sorry.”

“S’okay,” he says, smiling a little as he licks his lips. He wonders how red they look; how red hers look. “I didn’t mind.”

 _“I_ mind,” she says. “Here, just—hold it right there just a little longer.” Before he can ask why, he senses her shuffling around the bed, then gasps as she presses an apologetic kiss between his shoulder blades. She trails the kisses up to his neck—the left trapezius, and then the right, little symmetrical _thank yous_ , and then slowly, teasingly, down his spine. He whimpers and shifts his hips, uncomfortable; he’s getting hard enough now that he’d really, _really_ prefer it if his pants were off.

Anna’s voice is low and scratchy when she speaks. “I’m gonna turn you over now, okay?”

“Okay.” He braces himself, but still twitches at the press of her palms at his side and shoulder. He lets her guide him by hand however she wants him, flipping him onto his back and inching him up until his head hits the pillows. With a thoughtful hum, she deftly adjusts the blindfold so the knot isn’t at the back of his head, digging in, but rather facing to the side, by his ear.

“Comfy?”

He chuckles. “Sure.”

“Great. Good. Okay, so just, um—lie there, and stay still.”

The rasp of fabric on fabric as she moves around the bed seems almost deafening. And then there’s a tug at his hips, and she slides off his trousers and drawers in one fell swoop. Naked, he digs his fingers into the bedspread to stop from reaching out, though he’s not sure what he’d reach for exactly. It’s—a lot, is all. Knowing that the darkness is only for him; that while he’s seeing nothing, she can see _everything._

It’s quiet.

“Everything, uh. About what you expected?” he asks, nervous.

“Bigger,” Anna breathes thoughtlessly, sounding intimidated and dizzy and—and ravenous, he thinks. He’s not used to the timbre of _wanting_ in her voice, not so plainly as that. He’s certain he’s blushing; he can’t help but feel deeply pleased with himself.

As the moment stretches onward, though, he starts to suspect the intimidation is winning out. Anna’s never normally this quiet unless she’s panicking. “Hey,” he says softly, “don’t overthink it.”

“I—huh?”

“You’ve got this. You’ve got me. So just—go ahead.”

“Go ahead and what?”

“Whatever you want,” he says, and he means it. “It’s yours. Enjoy it. Have fun.”

He’ll remember the sound of her subsequent grateful, shuddering breath as long as he lives. “If you insist,” she manages to joke, shakily.

He kind of expects there to be more kissing, so his whole body bows forward in shock when instead he feels the feather-light rasp of a single fingernail trace around his navel and then follow his treasure trail down his abdomen towards his groin. Before he has a chance to worry too much about the state of his pubic hair, she bypasses the area entirely, following the veins under his skin. The light, cool touch of the pad of her finger as she traces him root to tip draws hysterical, uneven laughter from his lungs.

She pauses. “Does that tickle?”

“Not the word I’d use.”

“Hmm,” she purrs, clearly warming to the topic as she curiously palms his balls, getting a feel for their weight. “What word _would_ you use?”

 _“Anna,_ ” he groans, undone by the unexpected touch. Her hand migrates to wrap around him properly, and his breath hitches at even that amount of friction. Does she really expect him to talk when she’s stroking him like that?

She hums, corkscrewing her wrist in a way that has him seeing stars behind the blindfold. “No, I don’t think that’s the word.”

The fact that she’s found her confidence makes him confident, too—fills him up with pride and gratitude that she’s found this side of herself, that she wants to share it with him. “S’good. Feels good,” he rasps.

“Just good?”

“Feels amazing, Anna, please—”

Without any warning, she _licks_ him.

Colors explode behind his eyes. He bellows in shock, an ugly, strangled noise tearing from his throat as his hands claw at the sheets. She vanishes.

“Sorry! I’m sorry!” she yelps. “Was that—bad?”

It takes him a second to catch his breath. “No, that was good. That was a good sound.”

“It sounded bad.”

“You just surprised me, that’s all.”

“I’m sorry, this was dumb, maybe I should take this off—”

“No!” he exclaims, surprising them both with his vehemence even as the mattress dips, tilting him sideways with the way she’s holding herself suspended, paused halfway up to reaching for the blindfold. They can’t lose this. Not when they were only just starting to find it. “Leave it,” he says, quieter. “It’s okay.”

The bed shifts again with her weight as she settles back down next to him. “You keep flinching,” Anna murmurs, distress clear.

“Maybe you could—talk to me more. Like before. Y’know, uh. ‘Get on the bed, I’ll unwrap you like a present.’” He clears his throat, flustered at having had to repeat it. “So I know what’s coming.”

“Really?” He can _hear_ the way her nose is scrunching in skepticism. “It wasn’t… weird?”

He sighs, helplessly. He doesn’t know how say these things, how to explain it to her without it embarrassing them both at best or everything coming out totally wrong at worst. He _feels_ it, so strongly: how much he appreciates the way she speaks to him like this, whether it’s her simple, planned requests or the way she babbles when he gets her riled up. How desperately he needs her to lay down the trail for him, here in this world of dark, so he knows where to safely put his feet. How right it sounds, when she gets that note of crystal clear authority in her voice.

“I always like it when you talk to me,” is what he settles on, hoping it sounds sweet and not dumb.

“Okay,” she breathes. “I’m—okay. I’m going to put my hand back on you now. Just at the top of your thigh.” Sure enough, a warm palm lands at the V of his pelvis and rests there, thumb tracing delicate, soothing circles on the jut of his hip bone. Even that simple touch has him squirming, trying and failing to resist the urge to thrust. His cock bobs ineffectually in the air.

“Now I’m gonna… I…” Anna sounds overwhelmed. “Can I put my mouth on you?”

She’s going to be the death of him. “Please do.”

“Okay. You can pull my hair, if you want. Just not too hard,” she offers, as casually as she might say she prefers nutmeg in her cider over cinnamon. And then her lips are closing around the tip of his erection, tongue exploratory, and Kristoff _loses. his. entire. mind._

He’s glad she thought to give him permission, because his hands instinctively shoot down to bury themselves in her hair, desperate to do whatever it takes to keep her _there,_ right _there._ It requires all of his concentration to keep still, to stop himself from bucking up into her mouth; the sensation of her cheeks hollowing around him as she tentatively sucks in might be the most excruciatingly wonderful thing he’s ever felt in his life. His universe narrows down to the seal of her lips around him, the pressure of her laving tongue. He’s dreamed about this so many times, but all of his fantasies dim compared to the blazing reality of her.

Anna pulls off of him with a wet _pop_ so positively filthy his toes curl.

“How was that?” she asks, breathless, and he almost sobs. She can’t possibly keep asking him to talk, surely. He can’t. “Kristoff?”

With effort, he extracts one hand from where he’s tangled it in her hair to give her an unsteady, enthusiastic thumbs up.

She laughs, delighted.

“Well okay then. I don’t know how much more of you I’ll be able to take without, um. Practice. I feel like it would probably ruin the moment if I gag and throw up all over you—”

He teeters his open hand back and forth, an unspoken agreement. _Yeah, probably._

“—but I’m not ready to be done with you just yet. You good?”

Another thumbs up. He feels her knuckles bump against his; he unclenches his fist, letting her entwine their fingers.

“Alright. Deep breath,” she says, and he’s not sure if she’s talking to him or herself, and then he’s not sure of anything at all, because his brain has stopped working. It could be leaking out his ears, for all he cares. Nothing exists but Anna’s mouth, wet and hot and perfect around him.

He’s never going to last like this.

Maybe she doesn’t want him to?

No. He’s not ready for this to be over.

He makes himself account for the rest of his body: the squeeze of Anna’s fingers in his left hand, the soft thread of the hair at her temple in his right. The press of her elbow by his hip, where she’s holding her balance—this must be hell on her back, he realizes suddenly, but she doesn’t seem to mind. He tries not to mind, either. But now he’s distracted, pulled out of his own pleasure, and even as she sucks until he’s desperate and panting, he finds himself missing the sound of her voice, the ever-present monologue that’s accompanied all of their other encounters. He wants _all_ of her.

“A-Anna,” he grits out, forcing his vocal chords to work. “Hey.”

She gives a final little swirling flourish with her tongue before she lets him go; it makes him chuckle, despite himself.

“What’s up?”

Now that he has her attention, he’s not sure what to say. This whole thing is supposed to be about what _she_ wants, not him. He feels foolish. But she’s waiting now; he can’t not talk.

“I…? Missed you?”

He’s such an idiot.

The _“awww”_ noise she makes at him, like he’s a baby kitten or something, would be humiliating if it didn’t light him up from the inside out. Her hand pulls out of his and there’s a shuffle and rustle as she crawls up the bed towards him. She runs her fingers affectionately through his hair, careful not to disturb the blindfold. “How’d I get so lucky as to find you, huh?”

He leans into her touch, hesitant to answer. Everything he’s thinking just sounds so tacky. _I’m the lucky one. We found each other._ “Animal magnetism,” he jokes instead, hoping for a laugh. His heart soars when he gets one.

“Oh, is _that_ why you smelled like reindeer?”

His hands find her ribs; he tickles her. “That would be my _manly musk,_ actually.”

She twists and writhes under his hands, shrieking with laughter. He savors how _alive_ she feels, that much more attuned to every contracting muscle, every inhale and exhale, when he can’t see her. “That’s why Sven gets all those lady callers,” she gasps between giggle fits. “Your musk.”

“If only I could bottle it; I’d make a fortune.”

Apparently done being on the receiving end, Anna leans down and peppers his face with kisses, mischievous hands crawling up his sides and tickling him back. Kristoff laughs and squirms and tries to defend himself from the onslaught, curling into a ball, but it’s no use. He’s at her mercy.

Eventually, she tires of tormenting him. Her hands smooth out, soothingly, and she nuzzles her nose against his. “Thank you,” she says.

“For what?”

“I—I don’t know. You were right. This is fun. You make it fun.”

He feels lighter than air. “Not scary?”

“Not scary,” she confirms. With a final kiss to his cheek, she pulls up and away from him. “I’m not going anywhere, I’ll just—I’ll be right back.”

He listens hard for hints of what she’s doing as she slides off the bed. He’s rewarded with the dry whisper of cotton and wool pulling against each other, the soft thump of garments hitting the floor.

When she climbs back up on the bed, her knee is bare where it comes to rest against his flank. He reels at the thought of it, of her naked next to him. It’s a rare new thing, still—the privilege to touch her skin at all beyond her hands, her cheeks, the back of her neck, without the barrier of fabric.

“Gonna touch your chest,” she warns faithfully, and he’s ready for it when her palm settles between his pecs, fingers splayed wide. He focuses on the warmth caught there, just under her hand; lets the point of contact ground him.

“Hi,” he says, for lack of anything better.

“Hi,” she echoes. “I’m thinking about your rule.”

It takes him a second to realize what she’s talking about. When it hits him— _I don’t want to get you pregnant tonight_ —he flushes from the tips of his ears to the top of his chest. “What, uh. What about it?”

“I want to follow it—I’m _going_ to follow it, obviously, but. I also want…” She takes a deep breath. He doesn’t need to see her face to know what it looks like when she decides to be brave. “I want to know what you feel like. Inside me. So. I need you to work with me, here.”

“I can do that,” he promises immediately. “Whatever you want. I’ll warn you when I’m close, I swear.”

“I know,” she says. “I know you will. You’re going to listen, and you’re going to be good for me. Right?”

He shivers. In the past, when Anna’d said that to him— _I want to be good for you—_ it sounded medicinal; prescriptive. Like how carrots are good for you.

That’s not how it sounds to him now.

He swallows, mouth suddenly parched. “Right,” he agrees.

“That’s my guy,” she says fondly. Her hand drifts from his chest to his hip; she gives him a swift, playful tap. “Alright, mister, move that cute butt. Sit up, please. Legs crossed.”

With a groan—he’d kind of gotten used to just lying there and letting her do all the work—he pulls himself up until his back hits the headboard and folds his legs in on each other. “Now what?”

“Hold on, the blindfold’s all—” It’s not until he feels her readjust it that he realizes just how screw-eyed and rotated it had become, the tail falling on the other side of his temple, towards his face. She turns it around properly, then smooths it, making sure there are no creases. “How’s that? Can you see me?”

He’s certain she’s doing something silly with her hands to check. “Three fingers,” he guesses.

“Ha! It was two.”

“You got me. Can’t see a thing.”

“Good. Next, I’m gonna get in your lap,” she says, even as she’s doing it, settling onto his knees and shins, as far as she can get from his still-straining hard-on. He thinks she’s trying to go easy on him, even though it feels very much like torture. “And—I’m a little afraid it’s going to hurt, so. Maybe you could just touch me, first?”

He wants to tell her it won’t hurt, he’d _never_ hurt her, but—he’s seen the size of him, and he’s seen the size of her, and the only thing he can really promise is to go slow, and careful. So he does. “Whatever you want,” he says. “Can I?”

“Yeah. I’m ready.”

He decides to take his time; runs his hands slowly up her thighs and sinks his fingers into her hips, the way he’s wanted to all night. Even these familiar landmarks on her body carry a thrill of the unknown in the dark, without any clothing between them, and he leans forward to rest his forehead against hers when she makes a needy little noise in the back of her throat. “You with me?”

He feels her nod. “I’m with you.”

“Gonna take care of you, too, you know,” he murmurs, remembering how relieved he’d felt to hear her say that. How adored. “Gonna give you everything you want; whatever you want.”

She ducks forward and steals a quick kiss. “Prove it,” she dares him.

He huffs out a laugh and gets started, one hand drifting up to brace between her shoulder blades while the other drifts down, knuckles passing through damp curls to slide teasingly against her entrance. She’s positively slick for him; the idea that working him over as she has all night could turn her on this much has his cock twitching uselessly. He ignores it.

He hadn’t been courageous enough to ask, last time, but now feels like the right moment: “Can you show me? What you like?”

She moans, even as her hand comes down to join his. She guides his fingers, acquainting him with the bundle of nerves at her center that make her shiver and mewl. “There,” she gasps. “Right—right there.”

It’s probably for the best, he thinks, as he teases and rubs, that he’s learning this part blindfolded. He’s sure he’d be watching her face for even the remotest change in expression, distracted from—well, the task at hand. This way he just has to trust her, and her breathy, babbled coaching, and figure it out. And, he realizes with a smile, if he can learn to do it on touch alone, he can watch her face every single time in the future. He’s already looking forward to it.

“I need—inside, Kristoff, please,” she begs, and he slips a finger into the warmth and wet of her, making her keen.

He does his best to get her loose and relaxed, adding another finger at her request. His imagination runs wild, picturing what she looks like as she fucks herself on his hand, his fingers scissoring and crooking inside her. (“—love you so much, d-deeper, can you—?”) He’s getting painfully hard now, stiff and solid as iron, but it somehow feels—inconsequential. Far away.

“Okay,” Anna finally says, interrupting herself. “Okay. I’m ready.” She taps at his wrist, and he withdraws his hand and waits for further instructions. “Just—stay still, okay?” Her weight shifts as she gets up off his lap and onto her knees. “Maybe hold onto my waist? I might need you to kind of… hold me there,” she admits sheepishly, and he follows the lines of her legs until she’s braced in his grip. “Here goes nothing,” she mutters, and it’s the last warning he gets before she starts gradually lowering herself down onto him with a pained hiss.

Kristoff doesn’t breathe.

There aren’t any words for it—the way she feels around him as he sinks into her, inch by inch, agonizingly slow. He knows—he _knows—_ he’s hurting her, even as he’s swallowing down euphoria. He can feel it in the quivering tension of her thighs, can hear it in the hitching shudder of her breath.

Can hear it in the quiet she’s suddenly stopped filling with her thoughts.

“I-it’s okay,” he ventures tentatively, voice more strained than he’d prefer with the effort he’s exerting to stay still. It doesn’t matter; he’d let himself be bronzed as a statue like this, if that’s what Anna required. “I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere; I’m not moving.”

“It’s just a lot,” she whimpers, and he wishes there were something he could _do,_ instead of this not-doing she needs of him. He wants to fix it, he wants to—“Keep talking?” she asks, hushed and small.

So he does; he says every soothing piece of nothing he can think of as he holds her aloft, and Anna sits with him, and stretches, and breathes, and takes it. His voice cracks like a preteen’s when she gives the first experimental shift of her hips, but he manages to keep it up as she gains her confidence, slowly but surely riding him in earnest.

“Thank you,” she says, kissing him once, and then again—his lips, his cheeks, the bridge of his nose—as she moves against him. “That was perfect, Kristoff, thank you. Shh.”

He gratefully lets his mouth fall shut, lets words leave him entirely as he loses himself in her. She pulls at his knees until he unfolds his legs and stretches out, leans him back so she can take him deeper. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself sharp; he fears that if he lets his focus drift for even a moment, he’ll break his own rule.

He has no idea what time it is, how long they’ve been at this, what the sky looks like outside her window. Anna is the only real thing in the world, the skin and bones and muscle and heat of her. He wants her so badly, every part of her, insides and outsides and everything else. He’s going to fall apart.

“I need—” he breathes, then chokes the thought off, trembling.

She strokes his hair; cradles the back of his neck. “What, handsome?”

He shakes his head, overcome. He feels hollowed out and at the end of his rope; doesn’t know what more he can ask for. The underside of the blindfold is damp, he realizes; he’s not sure when he started tearing up.

“It’s okay. Take your time, it’s okay.”

“Need to see you, Anna, please—”

That’s all he’d had to say, apparently. She pulls at the knot at the back of his head; just like that, the blindfold falls away, and it’s like a revelation. He blinks hard, dazzled by the sudden glare, but she’s still there when his eyes open again, freckle-specked shoulders and sweat-clumped hair and heaving chest, right there, the column of her throat, eyes squeezed shut in pleasure as she rocks down to meet his thrusting hips, over and over. He doesn’t know where to look first; he doesn’t know how to stop looking. It’s—greedy, overwhelming, an embarrassment of riches. Too much of her to process; he wants to give the right attention to every detail, every beautiful inch of her.

He also really, really wants to come.

_“Anna.”_

Her eyes snap open and lock on his at the panic in his voice. “Hey. Stay with me, Kristoff. Not yet.”

“O-okay,” he agrees uneasily, less sure of himself than she seems to be.

“Look at me. Right here. Eyes on me.”

He’s _trying._ “I—”

“Do we need to stop?”

_“No.”_

“If I finish like this, will you be able to—to, um— _ohh_ —” He’d pivoted his hips a little to change the angle, desperate to last longer; whatever it is he’s done, it must be working on her end.

“I dunno,” he forces out when it’s clear she won’t be returning to the thought without prompting. “I—I think so?”

 _“Okay great because I need_ – _I mean I’d really like to_ – _I want_ – _if you could—”_ The words fall out of her, all in a single rush of breath, desperate and lovely and so incredibly Anna. He reaches back down to get his fingers on her, making her moan; just as he’d suspected, he’s mesmerized by the looks crossing her face. She seems like she’s totally out of it, but he watches as she tries to pull herself together. “Are you—s-sure—”

“I’m good; it’s okay, let go,” he promises, thumbing at her clit, and he can _see_ the moment she finally gives into how good he’s making her feel. She comes with a cry, and he pours every iota of his effort into not doing the same as her walls clench around him. She needs him to be good. He can _do_ this. Even when she’s—y’know. Wow.

Her forehead falls against his as she rides the aftershocks; he chuckles as she mouths at him with sloppy, appreciative kisses.

“I am gonna rock—your—world—Bjorgman,” she promises him between each peck, and—oh, no. This has been her _not_ doing that? He’s gonna die. She’s going to be the death of him.

She rebalances on her knees as she gets her second wind, and before he can warn her otherwise she’s grinding down onto him relentlessly. Once, then again, and it’s _ecstasy,_ it’s—

“Okay stop stop stop get off get off get off,” he hisses, “I’m gonna—”

“What, _get off?”_ she puns, a lascivious twinkle in her eye even as she mercifully slides off of him. He hiccups, a surprised laugh interrupting his desperate gulping of air into his lungs. Who even _is_ this girl she’s suddenly come up with? Any signs of timidity have vanished. “That was so good,” she praises, “You were so good for me.” She brushes his bangs out of his eyes. “Your turn, sweetheart. Tell me how you want it.”

“Don’t care, anything, please—”

She looks like she’s about to argue with him, and a sound Kristoff’s never made before tears unbidden from his throat: a high-pitched, plaintive whine of need. It shocks them both.

She takes him in hand without any more hesitation. “Okay, honey; I’ve got you, I’ve got it,” she promises, and he almost cries with relief.

He’s been so on edge for so long she barely has to touch him before he loses control, releasing all over his stomach as his vision whites out. He feels like he’s midair, like he’s plummeting, his body so overwhelmed, exhilarated and out of control it assumes it must be in freefall. The world rushes past; he forgets where he is. He tumbles end over end for what feels like hours.

Eventually, somehow, he lands.

His head thumps back against the pillows. “Holy shit.”

Anna lets out a nervously thrilled little half-giggle. “I’ll say. Um. Hold on, don’t move,” she says, leaving the bed.

“I don’t think I could if I tried,” he mutters. He hadn’t thought he’d said it loud enough for her to hear, but her laughter tells him otherwise. She returns after a few moments with a warm washcloth in her hand.

“I’m gonna—” She catches herself; gives him an embarrassed smile. “Well I guess I don’t have to warn you anymore, do I?”

“You don’t have to do any of that, Anna, I can—”

He weakly tries to sit up and push her away, but concedes to laying back down at the barest pressure of her palm against his shoulder. “Nah, no way. You asked me nicely last time. And besides, you’re _too tired to move,”_ she says, sounding incredibly smug and self-satisfied about it.

She moves to wipe him off, then pauses, cloth held hovering over him. She frowns.

“…What?” he asks.

In lieu of answering, she reaches out and drags a finger through the come on his abs, then brings it curiously to her lips to taste. He yelps in surprise, his cock somehow giving one last jump at the sight. _Good lord._

She freezes at his loud reaction. “Was that weird? Oh no. That was weird. I’m sorry, I just—wondered.” She looks mortified; he’d do anything to get that look off her face.

“Well what’s the verdict?”

“Huh?”

“Now _I’m_ wondering. Am I…” He waves a hand vaguely. “...delicious?”

She breaks into a hesitant smile. “Eh. Kinda saltyish, I guess?”

“My apologies I couldn’t offer something more gourmet.”

She blushes as she sets herself to her original task, toweling him off gently. “I didn’t mind it,” she mumbles, staring resolutely at his belly button.

His chest might burst with the overflow of affection he’s keeping bottled up.

“I love you so much,” he blurts. It’s not something he actually says all that often; the words have always felt a little trite, a little small to describe the feeling. But he needs her to know.

She ducks her head, like she’s shy about how pleased she is to hear it. It’s adorable. “I love you, too.” She gives him one last rubdown and then shuffles towards the edge of the bed. “Lemme just throw these in the hamper,” she says, taking the towel and grabbing his sweaty, tear-stained blindfold as she goes.

He somehow musters enough energy to sit up and grab his drawers from the end of the bed, pulling them on. He’s reluctantly considering the rest of his discarded clothes when Anna returns; he feels like he could pass out for a week. She really did a number on him.

“And just where do you think you’re going?” she asks as she slides under the covers, apparently deciding clothing is still optional.

“Uh. My room? Eventually.”

“What? No way. Absolutely not. Get over here.”

“I can’t just sleep in here,” he protests, even as he obediently scooches back and snuggles in with her. “People are going to notice.”

She curls into him—head pillowed on his chest, her sweat-slick skin tacky against his, hair tickling his hand as it wraps around her shoulders. “Let ‘em.”

“They’ll gossip.”

“Don’t care.”

“What if _I_ care?”

“Convenient. You can care for both of us,” she declares airily. “I’ll pick something else to care about. Like… I dunno. What kind of feed we keep in the stables.”

He tries to suppress his smile, even though she’s not even looking at him. “I care about that, too.”

“Too late; I called it. It’s my thing to care about now.”

“We can’t both care about things?”

“Nope. We’re going splitsies. Fifty/fifty.”

“Okay. I care about Elsa.”

Anna _gasps,_ loud and dramatic, and glares up at him. “Rude!”

“Sorry, I don’t make the rules.”

She pinches his waist; he laughs.

“Well then _I_ care about Sven,” she proclaims. “And ice.”

“I care about chocolate.”

_“Kristoff.”_

“You’re making it very easy to win at this game.”

“It’s not a _game,_ it—” She frowns and tucks herself back into his chest, so he can’t see her face. “I _don’t_ care what people say about me,” she repeats resolutely. “If they think I’m easy or stupid or naïve about you or whatever it is they think. I don’t, because I know it’s not true. And it’s—sweet, I guess, that you’re offended on my behalf, but…” Her voice has gotten very quiet. “It won’t change anything. People like that, they don’t need a reason. They’d find something to complain about no matter how good we are. So we might as well—”

“Be bad?” he suggests impishly, moving his hand from where it had been gently playing with the ends of her hair to instead curl around her breast.

She laughs, the visible tension between her shoulders easing. “Exactly.”

“Mmm. Okay,” he shrugs. Finding more words than that feels like it would take tremendous effort, all of a sudden.

“Okay?”

“I won’t care.”

“Liar,” she smiles, and kisses his chest.

He wants to keep teasing her, wants to keep the conversation going—he’d hang out with her forever, if he could—but his eyelids are getting heavy, and she’s comfortable and pliant against him, and it’s a battle he knows he’s going to lose. Still, he tries: “M’not,” he argues, though he’s lost the thread of what they were quibbling about.

“Quiet down, would you? Some of us are trying to sleep.”

His eyes fall shut, and his hand drifts up instinctively to stroke the bridge of her nose the way she likes, the way that makes her go all soft and sleepy. He just feels… good, warm and gooey inside like a cookie pulled a little too soon from the oven, and he wants her to feel the same. The song he’s been working out when he has the chance to dicker around on his lute—the one he thought of that day in the market, the one he’s already started to think of as Anna’s Lullaby—pops into his head, and he idly hums a few bars for her as she nods off.

Or maybe it’s him who falls asleep first, a satisfied smile on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title/Kristoff's lullaby is, for once, "Kristoff's Lullaby" from the Frozen Broadway soundtrack.
> 
> As ever, please drop me a line if you enjoyed! Hearing from y'all is the best part of my week.


	7. how good it can be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sunday! And oh my goodness, thank you so much for all of your kind comments. I was on cloud nine all week.
> 
> Content warnings for historically-misleading narrative use of abortifacients (DO NOT DRINK PENNYROYAL TEA! IT IS ONLY LIKE TAKING THE PILL IF YOU LIVE IN A DISNEY MOVIE) and a sex position that may make you go "Wait, can you...?" (NOT SURE! COVID CLOSED MY POOL SO I COULDN'T CHECK. BUT LET ANNA HAVE THIS.) Content label for, I suppose, the world's mildest introduction to pain play. And more sex.

Anna watches Kristoff carefully over the next few days, but if he’s acting any different she can’t tell.

She doesn’t know how he’s managing, honestly, because she _feels_ different. Not like different-person different, just—she feels like there’s a livewire under her skin, electric and sparking; like she’s swallowed lightning and it’s arcing across her nerves with no way back out.

She can’t stop thinking about it.

It’s only—she’s never seen him speechless before. Kristoff may not be a guy of many words, but he’s always _had_ them; fumbling or inelegant, he’s never been unable to express himself. But in her bed, there’d been times he couldn’t string two words together. (Until she’d needed him, and he’d found his voice to reassure her, firm and steady and sweet. Just for her.) And the way he’d let her manhandle him—posing and adjusting, stopping and starting. It’s not the moving, she thinks, but the _letting_ that’s gotten to her. Because she’d never be able to make him budge otherwise; he’s solid muscle. Which means that… he’d wanted it. To be moved. And he’d trusted Anna’s hands to do it right.

Her hands want very much to do him right again, as soon as they can swing it, but—things are getting busy, in the new year. It’s driving her to distraction. The thought of him in her mouth comes to mind at the most inopportune times, leaving her incoherent and blushing when she’s meant to be talking trade policy with Elsa’s advisors. Or he’ll do things, little normal Kristoff things like smirking or rolling his eyes, and she’ll suddenly remember the way he’d sounded, how he’d looked, how he’d felt inside of her, and she doesn’t understand how anyone expects her to be a functioning human being.

She misses the blindfold. Just having it, that is—fiddling with it in her pocket. Too late, she’d realized her error in putting it in with the rest of the laundry; she hasn’t seen it since, and the idea that it’s hanging on a clothesline somewhere, that who knows how many people have seen it and touched it and wondered about it, is mortifying.

Which brings her to—well. If she’s already this embarrassed, what’s a little more? She’s overdue for this conversation, and she’d promised Kristoff she’d take care of it. So one afternoon after lunch she screws up her courage and makes her way down to the cellar. There she finds Gerda ironing linens, giving soft orders to the other staff members in her orbit. When she spots Anna, she breaks into a smile and sets her work aside.

“Okay ducks, I think it’s time for a break. Would you mind giving me and Her Highness a few moments of privacy?” she asks, and Anna tries to keep a straight face as everyone else files from the room. Gerda knows. She must.

“You didn’t have to send everyone away,” Anna mumbles, when they’re alone.

Gerda’s smile turns impish. “Oh, I think I did. Looking for this, dear?” she asks, producing the blindfold from the pocket of her apron.

 _“Thankyou,”_ Anna chokes out, strained and high-pitched, as she snatches it from Gerda’s grip far too quickly to be considered casual. She winces. “It’s for, um. Party games. For family game night. Only I, uh, spilled wine on it, clumsy me, so—”

“No trouble at all,” Gerda says, gracefully sparing Anna the need to keep babbling.

The resulting quiet gets awkward real fast.

“Was there something else you needed, love?”

This is ridiculous. They both know why she’s here. Pretending isn’t going to get her anywhere, and if she’s not mature enough to ask for what she needs, then she probably isn’t mature enough to need it. So.

“I was wondering,” Anna forces herself to say, staring at her shoes as her face flushes fiercely, “if you could help me get some pennyroyal. And tansy.”

Gerda reaches out to chuck Anna’s chin up with gentle fingers, lifting her head until their eyes meet. Anna sees no judgment, no severity—just the same kind face that’s been looking after her for her whole life, amused and fond. “Silly girl. You think I didn’t do the same for your mother?” She chuckles, drowning out Anna’s flustered gasp. “Of course, _she_ was able to ask me without blushing, the wild thing. Gave me no end of trouble, I’ll have you know.”

Anna struggles to reconcile the mental image she has of her mother—reserved, sturdy, never a hair out of place—with the ‘wild thing’ Gerda describes. She’s not sure she can picture it, and feels a familiar pang of loss; it hadn’t occurred to her until this moment that this is _exactly_ the kind of thing she would have gone to her mother for. She’d been right on the cusp of being old enough to get to know her parents as people, not just parents, when she’d lost them. This side of her mother—the rambunctious young woman who’d managed to sweep a lonely prince off his feet? She’s a stranger. Which is really too bad, because… she sounds like an awful lot of fun.

With a start, Anna realizes she’s totally lost track of the conversation; Gerda’s been talking to her this whole time, rummaging through cabinets and returning with arms laden with herbs.

“Sorry, say all that again?” Anna asks, then does a double-take as she grasps what it is she’s looking at. “Wait a minute. You just _had_ all of this? Lying around?”

Gerda gives her a withering look. “You’re hardly the only girl of an age to need such things in my charge. And I’ve had time to build up a nice stock; I thought we’d have this little chat months ago.”

“You did? Why?”

The expression on Gerda’s face is the same one Anna’s seen a thousand times; the one she receives when she’s done something exceedingly stupid, and Gerda has to explain to her why it was dumb. _This is why we don’t ride our bicycle down the stairs_ as Dr. Hagen set Anna’s broken arm, or _They were more scared of you than you were of them_ while dousing Anna’s bee stings in cider vinegar.

“You came home from the mountains with that tall glass of water trailing after you like you hung the moon. I figured it was only a matter of time.”

Anna sputters out a laugh. “Sorry, what did you call him?”

“A tall glass of water,” Gerda repeats, resolutely. “Come now. I may be old, Highness, but I’m not blind—the man’s a snack.”

Anna can’t help the giggles that erupt out of her. “I… suppose he is,” she manages to agree, before taking several deep breaths and getting ahold of herself. “Okay. Could you explain it to me one more time?”

She listens closely as Gerda walks her through how to brew the herbs and when, what to watch out for, and how to be as safe as possible, absorbing all she can.

Next time, she’ll be ready.

* * *

Anna shows up at his bedroom door three times in one week.

Unfortunately, it’s not for the reason either of them would prefer. The weather has taken a brutal turn, temperatures plummeting, and Anna’s nightmares and chills have returned in full force as a result. To be fair, she’s been taking it about as well as anyone could hope; he’s really proud of her and the progress she’s made. She’s been so much better, lately, about admitting when she’s doing poorly and asking for help when she needs it.

Kristoff, on the other hand, has not been taking it well at all.

It’s just—he _needs_ her to be okay.

They try everything: sitting by the fire, and seeing if Elsa can make Anna her own personal warm front (she can’t), and piling on blankets and sweaters until Anna can hardly move. They try sex, too—or, they _try_ to try—but it turns out that Anna softly stammering _warm me up?_ as she trembles violently in his arms is categorically the opposite of a turn-on for him. (That night, she’d ended up the one holding _him_ as he shook, whispering _it’s alright; I’m alright, Kristoff, really,_ until he passed out from exhaustion, unconvinced.)

Nothing seems to help; not in the long term. In the meantime, she takes bath after bath, pleading with the staff to bring supplemental water from the kitchens when what comes out of the tap isn’t hot enough. Gerda puts her foot down every time with a shake of her head and a “You can make those puppy dog eyes at me all you want, Highness, but I’ll not boil you alive.”

That’s when he gets the idea. He’s not sure why he didn’t think of it before, but for his own incredulity that he and his familiarity with the mountains might have a solution that the well-appointed castle and all its staff did not. It feels a little ludicrous.

But at this point, anything is worth trying once.

* * *

She teases him the whole trip up, to distract herself from the chilly weather:

“Let me get this straight; I was _freezing to death_ and you had access to a hot spring that whole time?”

“It was in the wrong direction! I had to get you home!”

“I just feel like you could have mentioned it was an option.”

“Sure. Tell the princess who won’t shut up about her engagement to some other guy—a guy she thinks is her _true love,_ no less—that the solution to her problems is to get naked in front of me. That would have gone over real well.”

She blinks, taken aback. He’s not wrong, obviously, but—she’s done a pretty good job playing revisionist history with her recollection of the weekend they met, carefully editing out the way that Hans loomed so large in her thoughts at the time. It’s strange to be reminded of the truth.

“Well, it seems like a pretty good solution now,” she purrs in response, just to watch him blush. She’s not disappointed.

“You’re a menace,” he grumbles, with no real force behind it.

“And thank you. For getting me home safe.” She turns to the horse leading their sleigh. _“You_ were no help at all.”

Kjekk snorts, haughty and offended, and starts drifting inexplicably to the left once more, as he has their whole trip. “Hey!” Kristoff complains, jerking the reins, and Kjekk reluctantly course-corrects. Kristoff turns to Anna in annoyance, and she knows what he’s going to say before he says it: “You know, we’d probably be there already if you’d just let me use Sven.”

“And I told you, I don’t want to risk Sven seeing me naked. It would be weird—we’re friends.”

Kjekk whinnies in objection.

“No, we are _not_ friends; I thought we were, but then you left me to my cruel fate,” she tells the horse. She doesn’t even feel self-conscious about it, because she’s managed to date the only other person in the world who doesn’t think it’s weird that she argues with horses. “Anyway,” she says, returning her attention to Kristoff, “are we there yet?”

“Ten more minutes.”

They get there in seven. It’s not much to look at, at first—a nondescript copse of trees and a tall boulder or two—but he shows her the small, rocky path created by the gnarled tree roots that leads down into an isolated basin hidden from view by the surrounding stone. Within is an utterly secluded hot spring, maybe fifteen feet across; the water churns invitingly, bubbling and steaming in the cold air.

“Oh, wow,” she breathes.

“Yeah,” Kristoff says, sounding a little proud of himself.

“How deep is it?”

“Not too. It slopes on the far end, but never higher than chest-height.” He looks down at her and reevaluates. “Well. Head-height, for you. Don’t drown.”

“Ha, ha.” She moves to unclasp her cloak, but stills at the frantic way he waves her off.

“Not yet! I haven’t even built the fire.”

“We’re at a hot spring; why on earth do we need a fire?”

“You have to get out of the water eventually, Anna,” he points out, rolling his eyes. “Fat lot of good any of this will do us if you catch a chill after finally warming up.”

Okay, he has a point. “Fine. Anything I can do to help?”

“Just make sure that damn horse doesn’t run off before I’m done. He has our towels.”

Anna disconnects Kjekk from the sled on the off-chance that he does decide to bolt (and ties him to a tree, for good measure) while Kristoff builds an impressive campfire in the shale next to the water. He then retrieves a collapsible drying rack from the bed of the sleigh, along with the trunk of towels.

“This’ll keep everything warm and dry,” he explains as he sets it up close to the flame. “You’ll smell like wood smoke after, but it’s worth it—trust me, you don’t want to get out of there and realize the snow got your clothes damp. Oh, and you should probably put your hair up? Mine takes forever to dry in the cold, and you have way more of it than I do. Best not to risk it.”

It’s too much. How methodical and meticulous he’s being, how his concern has driven him to consider every contingency in advance—she doesn’t have a name for the way it makes her feel. Well, _loved,_ obviously, but that seems… underwhelming. Insufficient.

“Anyway, that should do it,” he says, wiping his hands against his trousers as she unbraids her hair and re-ties it into a quick bun. “Do you—um. Do you want me to turn around?”

“No,” she says, relishing the way his eyes widen and meet hers. What did he think was happening here? She decides to be bold, and goes a little further: “I want you to look.”

He swallows so hard she can hear it. “Okay,” he croaks.

She doesn’t bother trying to be lewd as she undresses—there’s little point when she shivers hard at every layer she removes, making both of them wince. Still, she hands him each garment as she takes it off, watching as he carefully places it on the drying rack for safekeeping, and that keeps the flickering, fond sensation in her chest smoldering steadily. He lets her brace against his shoulder to take off her boots and socks so she doesn’t have to sit on the cold ground, and then that’s it—she’s bare before him, nipples tightening painfully in the frigid air. It occurs to her that this is the first time he’s seeing her like this, in the bright light of day.

Arousal coils low in her gut at the thought.

“You should get in,” he suggests quietly, and the reminder startles her; for a second there, she’d almost forgotten why they were even here. “You can step down slowly; there’s a ledge. Don’t slip.”

She moves to the edge of the water, dipping a toe in and then yelping at the feel of it. “It’s _hot!”_

“I know,” he says, audibly holding back laughter. “That’s kind of the point.”

With a put-upon sigh to show how brave she’s being, she plunges one foot down onto the step he mentioned, then the other. Utterly against her own volition, the sigh melts into a vulgar moan at the blessed, searing _heat_ she finds her shins surrounded by; without a second thought, she jumps down so her feet touch the bottom of the spring, her whole body finally enveloped by all-consuming, delicious warmth. The water swirls around her, current caressing her like a kiss.

_“Kristoff.”_

“I know,” he repeats, actually letting himself laugh this time. “Good, right?”

 _“Amazing._ ” She doesn’t realize she’s closed her eyes in ecstasy until she blinks them open to find him staring down at her like—she doesn’t know. Like she’s a miracle or something.

It’s only when he makes no move to start stripping himself that she realizes that they’ve apparently been picturing this outing going very differently.

“Aren’t you going to join me?”

The surprise on his face confirms her suspicions. He shakes his head. “I’m—I didn’t bring you up here for that,” he mumbles, bashful. “I’m just trying to take care of you.”

“So take care of me,” she says, a little surprised at how husky and suggestive her voice comes out. He averts his gaze, unsure, and her heart aches. She should have floated that softer—she knows how helpless he’s felt these last few days, how far sex has been from his mind. Which is totally fair, really; the thought of her dying is a pretty thorough boner-killer for her, too.

But she’s feeling very much alive right now, is the thing.

“Hey. It’s not like before, okay?” she coaxes. “I know you don’t like it when I’m cold, but—I’m not cold, now. I promise. You fixed it.” He hesitantly meets her eyes once more, like he doesn’t dare believe her no matter how much he wants to. Fine. She’ll just have to give him one last nudge.

She digs deep within, rubbing her thumb against the crooks of her fingers—pretending she can feel the rasp of a blindfold there in her grip.

“Get in here, handsome.”

He stares at her for several torturous seconds before blurring into motion, gracelessly attempting to remove his tunic and sweater in one go. The leather catches on itself as he accidentally turns it inside-out, trapping his head—only his muffled _“Don’t get out!”_ stops her from emerging from the water to help him. Eventually he manages to disentangle himself, hanging his clothes on the rack with less than half the care he took with hers before joining her in the spring.

“Hi,” he says, a little breathless.

“Hi.”

“Are you _sure_ you—”

“Would you kiss me, already?” she interrupts, fighting the urge to roll her eyes.

He obliges.

From the very first second, she can tell this time is going to be different from everything that’s come before. All of the intermediaries are gone: no first-time jitters, no blindfold keeping her cautious and deliberate. No fear of pregnancy. And no one around for miles. Kristoff pulls her flush against him, the heated water easing the glide of skin on skin, and all of a sudden cold is the last thing she’s thinking about.

Anna _burns._

“Please,” she whispers, “please—” Not even sure what she’s asking for, but knowing she needs it desperately.

His head dips down and he takes one of her stiff nipples into his mouth, a hand drifting up to tease and pinch at the other. She moans. Her brain empties like he’s pulled the plug from a full tub—thoughts swirling, then ebbing, then gone. Never breaking contact, he walks her backwards until they hit the natural wall of the basin, a simpler kind of pleasure shooting up her spine as it meets wonderfully warm stone.

“This okay?” he asks, barely taking his mouth off her so that his lips brush against sensitive skin as he talks. Aided by the water, she hops up and wraps her legs around his waist, so he doesn’t have to lean down quite so much to get at her chest.

“Great. Keep going. I love your mouth,” she blurts, then groans. She hadn’t meant to say that. She never means to say most of the things she does when he turns her on; they just fall right out without her say-so. Or—with her say-so, technically. She drops her forehead to his shoulder, embarrassed.

Luckily, he just chuckles, the vibrations of it thrumming maddeningly against her breast. “I love your mouth, too,” he says, trailing kisses up her sternum and neck before capturing said mouth with his own.

“Y-you do?” she asks, wanting more details. Memories of his taste, the weight of his length pressing heavy on her tongue, pop into her head at even this barest suggestion of interest on his part. She tries unsuccessfully to banish them—that’s probably not on the menu today. He warned her pretty explicitly not to drown, and she’s not good enough at geometry to figure out how to have one without the other in their present circumstances. “Tell me—more about that,” she forces out between kisses.

“…Love your smile,” he says, after a long moment, giving her an incongruously chaste peck to draw one out of her. “Love the way you bite your lip when you’re nervous.” He bites down in the same place; her hips rock against his stomach. “Love… um…” He trails off, hands disappearing beneath the water to run appreciatively up and down her thighs. The move makes her feel indescribably sexy; like she’s just so appealing he can’t concentrate on anything else. Like he’s losing his words again, the same way he did when she went down on him.

Still, she was enjoying the train of thought. “Go on,” she goads. He whines. “Oh come on, you definitely love more than that, if you love my mouth so much.” She’ll turn him into a chatterbox yet; then they can be embarrassing together.

He pins her harder into the rock face, giving her real pressure against her core to work with. “Love that,” he admits with a breathless laugh. He’s smiling too hard to kiss her properly, now, grinning widely where they’re nuzzled cheek to cheek even as she writhes against him. “Love how much guff you give me with it, love the ridiculous things that come out of it. Love all the goofy faces it makes.”

She’s not sure how she feels about these adjectives he’s picking. “Ridiculous and goofy, huh?”

“You heard me,” he teases, nibbling at her earlobe.

She can feel his growing erection brushing against the underside of her ass, and consoles herself with the thought that at least part of him takes her seriously. “Can we—I want—”

“What?”

Impatient, she reaches down between their bodies and takes ahold of him, pumping him a few times with a twist of her wrist. “I—I’m ready, I want it. I want to.”

“Okay,” he grits out, like even that amount of attention has knocked the wind from him, and she lines up their hips and guides him inside of her with a determined thrust. _Fuck, ow._ She hisses at the sting of it—she was really hoping that would only happen the once.

He inhales sharply. “Anna?”

“Need a minute,” she admits with reluctance, and he goes motionless. She needs something else to focus on, she decides—pleasure to distract from the pain. “Hey. Know what else I love about _your_ mouth?” she asks him.

“Mmm?”

She kisses him, slow and filthy; takes her time to get the compliment out: “How good it is… at showing everyone… I’m yours.”

He takes the hint, bending down to suck at the soft, delicate skin of her throat. Her clit throbs and her hips buck instinctively at the sensation, taking him deeper—she gasps, caught in the conflicting nerve signals. Too much. Not enough. Ow.

“You good?” Kristoff asks immediately, head shooting up in concern.

She’s not sure. She wants to be? She’s getting there. “More hickeys,” she requests, too overwhelmed to ask any more artfully than that. His lips return to her pulse point, and she focuses all her attention on not moving while he works. “Just gimme a minute,” she rambles as the piercing ache between her legs subsides into a gratifying, pleasant burn. “Just a minute, and I can—” He scrapes his teeth against one of the bruises he’s just given her, and she forgets what she was about to say. Sweat darkens the hair at her brow—some combination of the strain of holding still, the scorching temperature of the water, and the mounting pleasure building within her. She doesn’t want to wait anymore.

“Okay,” she says, tugging on his hair to get his attention. His eyes flicker to her face. “It’s good. I’m good.”

He holds her gaze as he withdraws, then thrusts up into her, watching her closely for any sign of discomfort. All she feels is blissful fullness. “Yeah?”

“Yes. Kristoff, yes, _please—”_ The rhythm he sets is quick and merciless, shallow movements leaving her begging for more. She leans into it, into the not-enough feeling, and tries to bury herself there—like maybe if she never quite gets what she wants she can make this last forever. She teeters on the edge of it until she can’t stand it any longer, fingers scrabbling desperately at the muscles in his back, trying to get him closer. “H-harder,” she pleads, voice wrecked.

He hitches her up higher in his grip, angle adjusting as he deepens his tempo, and that’s great, that’s _perfect._ She clutches him tighter to show her appreciation, nails digging into the skin between his shoulder blades, only then he makes a horrified little whimpering noise like he’s made a mistake. His hips stutter once, then twice, and that’s all the warning she gets before she feels him pulsing within her as he comes.

“Oh—”

“Shit! Shit, Anna, sorry, I’m sorry!” He pulls out and drops her in his mortification, then yelps “Shit, your _hair—”_ as he realizes what he’s done. He manages to catch her before she can dip fully beneath the surface, only to over-correct a little too forcefully and knock her head on the boulder he’s had her up against as he pulls her back up. “Gah!”

Anna bursts into helpless, high-strung laughter as he rights her, mostly because her body doesn’t know what else to do—she’s coiled tight as a spring and her head hurts and her heart is pounding and she loves him, she loves him. “Kristoff! Hey—don’t, it’s okay—”

“I’m so sorry, I’m just—you’re so—it’s just that last time I _couldn’t,_ and—I really tried, but—”

“Kristoff,” she says again, catching his cheeks in her wet hands and forcing him to look at her in an effort to halt his spiraling. He blinks down at her. “Are we stopping?”

“What?”

“You don’t have to apologize, I’m not mad. I’m—very flattered, actually; we can revisit that later. But _right now,_ I really need you to let me know if I’m finishing up on my own, here,” she says, trying to sound calm and casual and not like she was two-thirds of the way to an orgasm that feels further out of reach with every passing second, and it’s taking everything she has not to grind against his abs.

His pupils dilate. “I wouldn’t—Anna. I said I’d take care of you.”

“Okay. Nothing’s stopping you.” She kisses him, soft and purposefully unhurried _(torture),_ trying to dispel his embarrassment with the sheer force of her will. “I’m all yours. How do you want me?”

He swallows and licks his lips. “How—uh. Do you need… I mean, can I take my time?”

 _No!_ the insistent throb between Anna’s legs wails in horror.

“Of course,” she says instead, her curiosity in the plan she can see forming behind his eyes winning out over her baser instincts.

“Okay.” He thinks for a moment, then walks them away from the wall, heading further back into the spring where the water’s a bit deeper. Once there, he reaches down and untangles her legs from his waist, turning her in his arms so her back’s to his front. “Lean against me and kick out.”

“Like, just float?”

“Yeah.”

It’s more contemplative than erotic, really. Anna used to do this all the time—even with the gates closed, the pond on the castle grounds was big enough for swimming in, and she’d often lose hours drifting on her back staring up at the sky, watching the clouds pass. She could almost be back there now, except her head is resting on Kristoff’s shoulder, the sheer height of him keeping her face and hair above the water as she lays out supine, balanced on its bubbling surface. The sky is a wintery uniform gray above her, spindly branches of trees stretching towards it in her peripheral vision, and it feels like she’s floating on the edge of the world; like the fulcrum where the nape of her neck meets the crook of his is the only tether holding her to the earth.

“Okay… now what?”

“Touch yourself,” he whispers, breath hot against her ear, and her whole body shivers despite the roiling heat of the spring.

“But I—”

“I’ve got you,” he says, hand coming up to brace against the small of her back. “I won’t let you sink. Let me see you, Anna, please.”

Well, since he asked so nicely.

She trails a hand down and starts teasing herself, running her fingertips through slick folds before circling and kneading her clit. It’s strange, at first—too much freedom, not enough friction—but she knows what she likes, and it’s not long before her hips start to roll despite the awkward position. Kristoff holds her steady as she moves, exerting just enough upward force to keep her horizontal, and it’s that feeling that stokes the fire in her, far more than anything she’s doing—the security of his splayed palm balancing her, like he could lift her with just one hand. She swallows hard, eyes drifting shut; her tongue feels thick in her mouth.

He noses at the shell of her ear. “What are you thinking about?”

“You,” she answers immediately.

“Yeah?” His voice is gruff with desire; she turns her head to bury her face in his neck, craving closeness any way she can get it. He smells so _good._ “Tell me more about that,” he says, echoing her earlier words.

The words spill from her easy as water, like they’d been waiting there on the tip of her tongue and all he had to was turn the spigot to release them: how insufficient and thin her own fingers have felt, now that she’s known his touch. How it’s him she’s been remembering ever since—the strength of his grip, the texture of his calluses, the thrilling unfamiliarity of his size and technique. How the breadth of his fingertips alone means he can do with one what she’s always needed two or three to accomplish.

“Like this?” he asks, finally, _finally_ reaching around with his other hand to replace her fingers with his, and she keens.

“Yes, Kristoff, yes, just like that, just—just like—”

“Then what?”

Then?

Then, more? She gets more?

“Then you’d—harder—”

“Gonna have to move you to do anything harder,” he cautions, and she’d be charmed by the warning if she could think about anything at all except the waves of lust crashing through her.

“Anything, Kristoff, please…”

He pulls her powerfully back against him, dragging her body down beneath the water to align against his, vertical once more. She instinctively scrambles onto her tiptoes to try and get footing on the slippery stone floor, but she’s clumsy at even the best of times and his ministrations are doing a number on her proprioception; it’s a struggle. His free arm wraps around her as she squirms and pants, bracing across her chest to secure her against him. He wraps his fingers around her shoulder, but she sees an opportunity and takes it—reaching up with both hands and pulling at his wrist until he moves his hand to cup her breast instead. He chuckles, obediently rolling and pinching her nipple between his fingers.

“You could have just asked me.”

“I—you—thank you, sorry—”

“No sorry,” he corrects her, swirling his ring finger hard around her clit to emphasize his point. She sucks in a harsh breath. “You’re in charge.”

“Okay, but—”

“Say it.”

“I’m in charge,” she mewls, feeling out of her mind with want.

“That’s right; that’s my girl. Now what?” he prompts, and her eyes roll back in her head just at the timbre of his voice, at the promises she hears within it. “What do I do next?”

“You—um—inside—”

It’s a good thing he’s so strong, a good thing the water is buoying her, taking her weight, because her wobbly knees give out completely when he sinks two fingers into her; she collapses backward against him, boneless.

Her head is so fogged with arousal that his earlier misfire feels like it happened approximately ten thousand years ago, but if the way he’s touching her now is any indication, it’s still on his mind. He pumps into her with a calculated slowness, every move the opposite of before—pushing into her deep and dirty, taking his time. It’s leisurely and thorough and relentless, and, as if from a great distance, she hears herself ask him over and over again not to stop. She wants to reach up and bury her hands in his hair; wants to reach down and _hold_ him there, keep his wrist trapped forever just like this—but doing either of those thing would mean letting go of his arm, and if she lets go of his arm she’ll fly off into space, she’s sure of it.

“Kr-Kristoff—”

“That’s it. I’ve got you.”

He does. Her feet aren’t even touching the bottom anymore; the only thing holding her up, the only thing she feels at all, is Kristoff, the two of them drifting unmoored in the inescapable, all-consuming heat. She’s so hot. He makes her so hot.

“Yeah? You finally warming up, baby?” he asks, and she moans. He’s never called her that before. She hadn’t realized she said any of that out loud. She feels like he’s taking her apart, like he’s dismantling her into separate, unconnected pieces—needy, rutting hips and chattering mouth and clutching fingers, still desperately squeezing his forearm. She’s slack-jawed and senseless and so close, yet so impossibly far…

“Come for me.”

She shakes her head. She can’t, it’s not—it went away last time, she doesn’t want it to go away, she has to—she has to—

A third finger plunges inside of her; she sinks onto the renewed pressure gratefully as his thumb presses down on her clit. “Help me help you,” he pleads, stroking and thrusting, hard and thick and just right. “What do you need?”

“I don’t—I don’t know, I—nng—”

“Okay; it’s okay. Easy. Relax,” he soothes, and—is she tense? She doesn’t think she’s tense, she’s just _close,_ that’s all, so close she can almost taste it, helplessly caught up in the push and pull of his hands on her body. He trails kisses down her neck and she arches into it, trying to give him access, wanting him everywhere he can possibly reach. “You’re almost there, Anna, come on. I know you can. Come for me,” he says again, and then he bites down firmly on one of the hickeys he left her earlier, and Anna—

Anna unravels.

She wasn’t there until suddenly she was, and her orgasm crests over like a tidal wave; all she can do is breathe, let it hit her, and ride it out. “So good,” she whimpers. “You’re so good…” Kristoff holds her steady, working her through the aftershocks until she’s quivering and spent. She leans back on him heavily, trusting him to hold her up; there’s no way she could tread water on her own. He’s _so good._

She starts laughing.

“What?” he asks, maneuvering her until she’s arranged bridal-style in his arms, a little easier to hold onto. “What’s so funny?”

“Just—I can’t believe you thought you were gonna sit over there by the fire and… what? Twiddle your thumbs? Watch me stand here and cook like a lobster?”

She can’t tell if he’s blushing or if he’s just flushed from the hot water; she’s definitely approaching her limit, herself, but feels too loose and unwound to want to move any time soon. “I didn’t want to assume,” he says.

“Kristoff, you can always assume. Let’s start assuming. Okay?”

“Okay,” he says, in the kind of voice that means he absolutely won’t.

She huffs out a sigh, blowing her bangs out of her eyes, and lets him cradle her close to his chest. She can think of worse places to be.

“We should get out,” he says softly, after a few minutes, and—yeah. Like there. That’s a way worse place. (Plus, she’s pretty sure her legs would tremble and fall out beneath her like a baby reindeer’s if she tried to walk right now.)

She plays for time with a noncommittal “Mmm.”

“Anna—”

“No thanks.”

“You’re bright pink.”

“I look great in pink.” (She doesn’t, actually; it clashes horribly with her hair.)

“You’ll be Anna Thermidor.”

“Sounds delicious.”

“You’ll shrivel up like a raisin.”

A bit late for that; her fingers pruned ages ago. “I’d be a cute raisin.”

He hums; thinks about it. “I don’t think so. Probably get all wrinkly and decrepit, old before your time…”

“Kristoff!” she whines, pinching his chest in objection.

He _squeals._ “What was that for?”

“A gentleman doesn’t cast aspersions on a lady’s age.”

“I didn’t say you _are_ old, I said you’d _look_ old.”

“Same difference.”

“Tell you what,” he says, walking them back towards the water’s edge, “I’ll get out first, towel off and get everything ready for you, and you can enjoy the extra minute and a half that buys you in here. Deal?”

She considers arguing, but… she hasn’t had nearly enough opportunities to admire his naked backside, and this sounds like the perfect chance. “Deal.”

He steps out, cringing a little as his bare feet walk the four cold steps between the spring and their fire, but Anna doesn’t look at his ass. All she can see are the angry red scratch marks etched across his back in parallel arrays between his shoulder blades.

“Did I do that?” she gasps, even though obviously she must have—the lines are fresh, and he never had his back to the rocks. She remembers scratching him, sort of, but hadn’t realized she’d done it nearly that hard.

He’s definitely blushing, now; she can see it deepening under the general pink of his skin. “Yeah, I—jeez, Anna, why do you think I lost control so fast?”

Her nose wrinkles. “But didn’t it… hurt?”

He dries himself quickly and steps into his drawers and breeches in one go, hopping on one foot to get them up his sweat-sticky legs. “I’ll be feeling it tomorrow, that’s for sure.”

“That hardly sounds pleasant.”

“Anna.” He looks at her funny, expression pointed, and it takes her a second to realize he’s staring at the bites and hickeys he’s left painted across her neck and décolletage, at her request.

Oh. _Oh._ Okay. She kind of gets it.

He throws on his sweater and immediately rolls up the sleeves, grumbling about how warm he is. Socks and boots come next, and then he throws his used towel on the ground to make a little walkway for her. It’s the kind of sweet, gallant move he does thoughtlessly, all the time—she tries not to point them out if she can help it, in case the praise makes him self-conscious enough to stop.

“Come on,” he says with a jerk of his head. “Before you cook completely.”

“Wait, am I a lobster or a raisin? I feel like we never decided.”

“Out now or you do this without help.”

“Okay, okay,” she grumbles.

She won’t admit it, but she _is_ overheated; the freezing air feels like a welcome reprieve as it hits her. Kristoff is quick and no-nonsense as he towels her off, then hands off her bloomers and tights for her to pull on herself as he tries to locate the opening in her voluminous skirt. That all works well enough, but when he holds out her skirt for her to step into, she sees the scarlet half-moons dotting his left arm—eight in a row, spaced the same width apart as her splayed fingers. _“Kristoff.”_

“What?”

She places a hand on his arm for balance as she steps into the skirt, but refuses to let him go after. Instead, she runs an apologetic thumb over the crescent indents left by her nails. “How many scratches did I _give_ you? Why didn’t you ask me to stop?”

“Can we talk about this when you have a shirt on?” he asks, and—fair enough. She finishes dressing quickly as he kicks at the fire, putting it out. She’s sad to see it go; already the tip of her nose is getting a little chilly, and she knows the heat lingering under her skin from the spring won’t last. He pulls on his tunic and tosses her his waterskin as they head back up the path to the sleigh. “Drink that; you must be parched from all of that talking.”

She blushes furiously, but doesn’t argue—she is thirsty, now that he mentions it. She ends up draining half of it in one go.

Kjekk is still where she left him, thank goodness, and Kristoff keeps his back to her as he hitches the horse up to the sled once more. “…All I can tell you is that I didn’t mind it. The scratches, I mean,” he says, soft enough that she has to strain to hear him. “It—I liked when you did it. I like pretty much everything you do. You, uh. You can assume. Okay?”

“Okay,” she says, in the kind of voice that means she absolutely won’t. He turns back to fetch the clothes rack and trunk, and just like that, it’s time to go.

The exhaustion hits her almost as soon as she steps up into the sleigh and sits beside him. Her clothes are cozy and snug and smell like the fire, as promised, and Kristoff wraps a blanket around her shoulders to ward off the inevitable chill. She doesn’t let herself get anxious about how long it will take for the cold to seep back into her bones—she focuses instead on how wonderful she feels in this moment, warm and sleepy and sated.

“Sing for me?” she mumbles, leaning against his side and nuzzling her face into his shoulder. To protect her nose from the wind, of course.

He sighs that belabored sigh, like he’s doing her _the biggest favor in the world,_ but he sings. A slow, quiet love song, reverent and adoring. About how much he wants her. About how she’s changed his life.

She nods off before he even hits the third verse.

* * *

It’s a good thing Anna snores, because otherwise the quiet might get to Kristoff.

Without Sven to talk to time drags, even though the trip is technically faster downhill. So Kristoff does his best to focus on other things—like how Kjekk is still pulling inexplicably to the left, or the beauty of the snow on the tree branches, or the way about forty-five minutes ago Anna started shivering again, or—

No. Not that last one. He’s not thinking about that last one.

Because everything is fine, now, and Anna is fine now.

He’s got nothing to worry about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anna IS fine now, but, y'know... look at him, he's got anxiety.
> 
> Chapter title/Kristoff's lullaby the classic "Here, There, and Everywhere" by the Beatles. And as always, please drop me a line below if you enjoyed this; hearing from you is the best part of my week.


	8. like Cleopatra, Joan of Arc, or Aphrodite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sunday! Novel content labels for oral sex and people being big ol' meanies about Kristoff not being fancy (mostly offscreen). Oh, and Anna says a ~naughty word~ out loud instead of just thinking it. 
> 
> (Kristoff also says it but I feel less inclined to warn you.)

“Hup! She’s away!”

Kristoff plants his feet and braces himself, receiving the massive ice block Erik’s shoved toward him and transferring it to the wagon with a groan. It’s been three days of the same back-breaking, repetitive motions—and while they get more done collaborating like this, it’s still exhausting. He’d had to shuck the scarf Anna made him hours ago, overheated with it wrapped around him. But at long last, the finish line is in sight. They’re starting to lose the light, now; he has to squint a little as he runs a finger down the edge of the block.

“Your edges are sloppy,” he reports. “Not your best work.”

Lars and Aleks look up from where they’re sawing the next piece; Lars sneers. “Your face is sloppy,” he grumps, just loud enough that Kristoff can hear.

Kristoff snickers, unfazed. “‘My face is sloppy?’ That’s _really_ not your best work. You must be getting tired, old man.”

Lars is only two years older than Kristoff is; Aleks and Erik laugh at the way he scowls. “He’s right, lad,” Erik chuckles, shaking his head. “You can do better. What was it you said about his nose that one time?”

Lars shrugs. “Everything I say is hilarious; you can’t expect me to remember every insult.”

“It was ‘Nose like a hatchet, face like a hatchet job,’” Aleks recalls dutifully.

“Thanks for that,” Kristoff mutters as the others laugh more. Even Sven joins in from where he’s lazing by the shoreline, the traitor. At least he’d been able to talk Olaf out of coming.

They work a little longer, until the lamplight isn’t enough to sustain them in the dusk; Erik calls them off and suggests they start dinner. Together, they patrol the posts placed around the water’s edge and raise the red flags: thin ice.

Kristoff packs up his gear and looks at the turquoise scarf hung carefully on a nearby branch. It still smells like Anna, just a little, from the long evenings spent in her hands or tucked under her pillow for safekeeping as she’d made it. He could wrap himself up in it, tonight—they’re due to head home in the morning.

Or he could have the real thing.

“Nah, I think I’m going to head back,” he says. “Take the first cartful with me so you’re not overloaded tomorrow.”

Erik frowns. “Don’t be stupid,” he says, planting his hands on his hips like a schoolmarm. “You’ll break your neck going down that trail in the dark, and for what? You’ll be lucky to hit town before midnight.”

“Aw, leave him alone,” Aleks says, shyly meeting Kristoff’s eyes over his glasses like he’s not sure Kristoff will appreciate the help. “You were young and in love, once.”

Erik’s smile twitches under his massive salt-and-pepper beard. “You watch your mouth; I’m still plenty young and in love. Just ask the missus.”

 _“Okay,_ ” Kristoff interrupts, pointedly stacking the last of his things into the sleigh before Erik can go into way too much detail about how he and Lise are trying for another kid. _Again._ “That’s definitely my cue to leave.”

Lars holds up a hand. “Just one more thing. I was gonna bring this up in the morning, but—I was thinking next month I might head up to Lake Ironglass, do my last haul for the season there. You’re all welcome to come… that is, unless you’re chicken.”

The others agree readily enough, though Kristoff rolls his eyes at the poor attempt at reverse psychology. Lake Ironglass comes by its name honestly—for whatever reason, the ice that forms atop it is thicker, clearer, and less prone to breakage than anywhere in the region—but it’s a nightmare to get to. High up the North Mountain, it’s a tough trip even in the depths of winter. But next month, with spring just around the corner…

“Yeah, I’ll pass.”

Lars makes a face. “That princess is making you soft, Bjorgman.”

Kristoff chokes back a very inappropriate laugh, because while Anna makes him a lot of things, _soft_ doesn’t tend to be one of them. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Sven catches the way Kristoff’s biting his lip and chuffs, scandalized.

“Whatever you say, Jørgensen. I’ll see you around.”

Kristoff wraps his scarf around himself, mounts Sven’s saddle, and doesn’t look back.

* * *

Anna is having a very good dream. Or at least, she’s pretty sure it’s a dream—the castle is made of candy, which doesn’t seem quite right, but it’s hard to care about that when Kristoff is here with her, hands touching her all over. She sinks into the feeling, flushed and euphoric and everywhere. Her hips rock lazily into the mattress; she leans into the fingers gently caressing her cheek.

“Mmm… Kristoff...”

Wait a minute.

“Kristoff?!”

She bolts upright—surprised to find herself awake, and even more surprised to find Kristoff _actually_ kneeling at the side of her bed, hand in the air where her face had just been, still dressed in his work clothes. Shouldn’t he be…? “Hi,” she tries, first, in case he’s a dream.

“Hi.”

That didn’t narrow it down as much as she’d hoped. She tries again: “You’re here.”

“Sure hope so.”

“I thought you wouldn’t be back until tomorrow.” It’s meant to come out like a question, but her yawn towards the end there makes her state the obvious, instead.

It makes him yawn, too; he smiles at her sleepily. “Wasn’t supposed to be. But when we finished up for the night and it was time to pack in I just…” He shrugs, bashful. “I wanted to be home.”

“It’s late,” she says, brain still catching up. She feels like she should say more, like she should point out how that’s a very sweet thing he just said, but she can’t quite marshal her sluggish thoughts.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“Don’t be. M’glad you’re here.”

“I meant to just peek in for a second. I wasn’t trying to wake you.”

She grins. “Liar.”

“Okay, okay. Caught me,” he chuckles, standing with a groan of effort and shuffling in the direction of her hearth. His movements are sloppy and ungraceful; something about it nags at her. “Are you cold?”

“No, I—whoa!” she yelps, watching as he trips on the carpet and stumbles towards the fireplace. Anna’s out of bed faster than she thought she could move, getting out in front of him and catching Kristoff by the shoulders before he can hit his head on the stonework. He stares at her, dazed.

“…Coulda sworn you were just over there,” he jokes. Or at least—she’s pretty sure he’s joking. Hopes he’s joking.

Only now that the adrenaline spike’s woken her up properly and goosed her senses, it’s impossible to miss what she couldn’t quite see before: the glazed distance in his half-lidded eyes; the way his shoulders slump like holding up his own bulk is taking all of his usually considerable strength. He’s totally spent. The truth of it hits her all at once—that he’s worked all day and rode all night, just for… what? Her? “You shouldn’t have traveled like this,” she chides softly, wrapping her arms around his waist. “It’s not worth it. I’d still be here tomorrow, you know.”

“S’fine. Sven got us back.”

“Kristoff—”

“Wanted to see you,” he mumbles. He’s swaying on his feet, practically asleep standing up now that he’s got something to take his weight. And she’s—well. She’s taking it. She’s strong enough to hold him here; to keep him upright, even when he’s heavy with exhaustion in her arms. She’s got him.

She finds she likes the feeling a great deal.

He rests his cheek on the crown of her head; leans on her a little more fully. “I should go to bed,” he whispers.

“Yeah.”

Neither of them budge.

“…Am I gone yet?” he asks after a long moment, like maybe his feet might have moved him without his noticing. She laughs; buries her face in his chest.

“No. This is silly. Just—stay here. Stay with me.”

He breathes deep— _in, out_ —and a shiver runs down her spine at the way it ghosts across her scalp. “Okay, Anna.”

She’s all business as she strips him, the two of them quiet but for the occasional request that he lift his arms higher, or that she position him more gingerly. She thinks about Elsa’s little joke, the spare dress that now hangs in his closet—it’s not a bad idea, really, and she should have taken the hint. They have to start planning ahead for these things, because right now her options are: have Kristoff sleep in his drawers despite the cold (more fun for her than for him), let him into her bed in his filthy clothes (even she has standards), or try and fit him into anything she has in her wardrobe (absurd, but certainly hilarious to imagine).

“Whas’so funny?” he asks as she half-carries, half-marches him back to the bed and tucks him in on the side she’s already started thinking of as his, giggling to herself all the while.

“I was picturing lending you a pajama set.”

He makes a little huffing noise, more sigh than laugh, and she smiles as she gets back under the covers, deliberately giving him plenty of room. It doesn’t do much good; it only takes about thirty seconds for him to blink his eyes open, adorably confused. “What’re you doing all the way over there?”

“I don’t want to hang on you; you’re sore.”

“Aw, for—c’mere, gorgeous,” he growls playfully, grabbing her by the waist and dragging her across the mattress into his arms. He wolfs at her neck, and even though he’s not being serious the feeling of it zings through her, right down to her toes. She wonders if this is how he feels when she calls him _handsome_ —appreciated and stunning and kept.

Still: “Don’t write checks you can’t cash, Casanova.”

“S’just cuddling.”

“A likely story.”

“I mean. I can stop…?”

“Don’t you dare.”

He mumbles something incomprehensible into the collar of her nightgown, then lets out a soft snore.

She snuggles close and follows him easily back into dreams.

* * *

Anna looks absolutely ridiculous in the mornings.

It’s something he’s always loved about her; one of the earliest things he’d clung to when he still needed to remind himself every day of all the ways in which she’s just an average person. It’s hard to reflexively _Highness_ someone who drools in her sleep. When he wakes up with her nestled in his arms, he spends some time running his fingers through her hair, trying to tame her prodigious bedhead into something a little more presentable.

He makes decent progress, lost in the drowsy rhythm of it, until an adorably grumpy “Do you _ever_ sleep in?” floats up from where her face is muffled against his shoulder. He startles; he hadn’t realized he’d woken her up.

A chuckle falls from him as he relaxes. “This _is_ sleeping in. If I were still at the work site I’d have been up before sunrise.”

“Ugh.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.” He presses a kiss to her temple and starts scooching back, inching his way off the bed. “Alright. I’d better go.”

Her small hand shoots out whip-fast under the covers, grabbing at the waistband of his drawers and holding him still. “Mmm. Disagree.” She sounds much more awake, all of a sudden.

“Oh?”

“You see,” she says, then stretches so that every part of her is pressing against every part of him, and that’s just—that’s not playing even remotely fair, “I was having this really, really good dream, just now. About my boyfriend, Kristoff. Maybe you’ve met him?”

“Anna,” he laughs, not sure how he found himself so attuned to the whims of this impossible creature. “C’mon. People will be looking for us.”

“No, they won’t,” she says, and he realizes she’s right as she elaborates, trailing kisses across his bare chest: “No one expects you home until the afternoon, and normally I wouldn’t be up for hours.” A lazy knee drifts up, and he groans as she finds his morning wood and makes a satisfied little hum. “We’ve got time.”

“Yeah—but—” The way she’s pressing her knee against his length is making it _very_ hard to think.

“It’s okay. No one’s going to come looking for us,” she promises, voice a low, throaty purr as she pulls at him until he rolls over, hovering above her on his elbows. She kisses him once, then again. “No one knows you’re home but me.”

“I guess,” he breathes, falling into the intoxicating movement of her mouth against his as he kisses her back. “What do you—tell me about this dream.”

“So you’re staying?”

“Oh, for— _yes._ ”

“And we can do whatever I want? I’m in charge?”

“Always, Anna, what’re you—”

Her eyes open for the first time, and he’s frozen to the spot at the intensity with which she meets his gaze. “I want you to fuck me until I can’t think straight. Until I’m dizzy for it. Can you do that for me?”

Holy shit.

“Yeah,” he croaks, wincing at the way it cracks high at the end. “Yes. Definitely.”

His muscles protest as he leans back so she can sit up—he _is_ sore from his trip—but then she’s pulling off her nightdress and bloomers, fast enough to make his head spin, and any lingering discomfort is easy to ignore. When she reaches again for his waistband, though, he shakes his head and presses her back against the pillows, leveraging his superior weight to gently hold her down. “Not yet. I want to try something.”

“Well, if you want to _try_ something,” she drawls, settling back with her arms behind her head. It’s languid and sensual, like she expects him to start feeding her grapes or fanning her with a palm frond. “How’s this?”

It’s perfect is what it is—every inch of her exposed to him, the stretch of her triceps above her head doing frankly amazing things for her chest—and all he can do is give her a dopey, punch-drunk smile before he gets started.

He takes his time as he kisses and laves his way down her body, acquainting himself with delightful new friends and old favorites alike—the stiff peaks of her nipples, the freckles that dot her torso and stomach, the creases of her thighs where they meet her hips. She squirms beneath him, treating him to a monologue about all the precise ways in which he’s making her feel amazing, how much she likes the rasp of his stubble on her skin. It shoots straight to his groin; he could listen to her pleasure-soaked ramblings until the end of time.

When his mouth finally finds her slick center, she _squeals,_ high and loud, then goes abruptly silent.

All he wants to do is taste her again, but—quiet isn’t like her. “Anna?” He looks up to find she’s clapped a hand over her mouth, staring back at him with wide, mortified eyes.

That won’t do at all.

“Anna, let me hear you,” he coaxes. “Put your hand down.”

She shakes her head at him frantically, fingers still clamped hard over her lips.

“It’s like you said,” he reminds her, before licking an exploratory stripe up her slit. She makes a strangled noise, arching her back; he watches, fascinated, as the muscles of her neck strain and hollow and flex for him. “No one’s around. No one’s going to hear. Just me.”

She lifts her palm just long enough to admit, in a choked little whisper, “It’s _embarrassing._ ”

“Are you kidding?” he asks, stupefied. She clearly isn’t, but—how can she not know…? “It’s _hot,_ ” he corrects her, hoping that the obvious passion in his voice makes up for his lack of vocabulary. “Fuck, Anna. Everything you do is so hot.”

She shakes her head again, but it looks to him like her heart isn’t quite in it this time.

He considers his options. He could make a game of it, tease and withhold until she lifts her hand and complies. But it doesn’t feel right; this isn’t about what he wants. _I want you to fuck me until I can’t think straight._ That’s what she’d said. And maybe, if he gives her what she asked for in the first place, the issue will resolve on its own time.

“Suit yourself,” he says softly, then lowers his head to suck curiously at her clit. She jerks as if she’s been struck by lightning; her legs wrap around him, heels digging sharply into his shoulder blades to spur him closer. He grins against her and keeps going, tracing her with his tongue, drawing shapes and applying different kinds of pressure as he discovers what she likes. Slow and soft, he learns, yields needy, desperate whines from the back of her throat; licking inside of her makes her thighs quiver where they’re pressed around his ears. And if he reaches up to play with her breasts as he puckers his lips and suckles—

 _“Kristoff,”_ she gasps, hands shooting down to bury themselves in his hair, pulling at him so she can grind against his face.

There she is.

Instead of gloating, he rewards her with more suction, grazing a callused thumb across her sensitive nipple. The way she rakes her nails appreciatively against his scalp in response nearly melts his spine to liquid; his whole body goes loose and lazy as he laps at her. “That’s it,” he murmurs, not bothering to lift his mouth from where it’s buried in her heat. “C’mon. Talk to me.”

“I—I—”

“Mmm?” he asks, and she must like the buzz of it, judging by the way her muscles tighten, drawing his head deeper into the cradle of her thighs.

“If you don’t stop, I’m going to—please, I want—you said—you haven’t—” Her whole body is quaking.

“You’re going to get everything you want,” he promises her ardently. “I’m just getting started.” He redoubles his efforts, licking and sucking until she cries out and shakes apart under his diligent tongue. He gentles her through it; eventually, the tension in her legs finally eases and her breathing gets less ragged. Only then does he crawl back up her body, taking in just how sweaty and disheveled he’s made her.

Gorgeous.

“S’that a carrot in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?” she slurs as he comes to rest at her side.

He barks out a laugh. “Cute,” he says, brushing her hair back from her face. “But if you’re joking, you’re thinking. And if you’re thinking—then I guess I’m not done yet.”

She smirks at him, eyes dark with desire. “Guess not,” she agrees.

He draws her into a kiss, frowning in surprise at the intense, lust-ridden moan it pulls from her. Too late, he realizes what’s different—she must taste herself on him. He tries to lean back, appalled at himself, but she chases him eagerly, thrusting her tongue into his mouth and grabbing his chin. Okay then. He relaxes his jaw into her palm, letting her take whatever she wants from the kiss. It’s all hers, anyhow.

His cock throbs, but he knows better than to just bury himself in her, no matter how much he may want to. He reaches down and tests her with two fingers, finding her swollen and soaking. Her hips follow him hungrily as he pumps into her; he hadn’t realized just how hard she must have been trying to keep herself still before.

“Okay. Okay, I know,” he soothes. “Ready?”

 _“Fuck me,_ ” she repeats, spreading her legs wide for him, and he removes his hand and enters her carefully, waiting for a hiss of pain. It never comes. Instead, Anna settles beneath him with a quiet, wondrous _“oh,_ ” then rocks into him with relish, taking him deep. “Oh, oh…”

“Good?”

“So good,” she keens, stretching and straining her neck backward into the pillows as she arches against him. She sounds _gone,_ already, and it lights a flame deep in his gut. He can do this. He can take her so far outside herself she forgets everything but him; he can give that racing mind of hers a rest. This is something he can do.

“Hold onto me,” he whispers in her ear as he rolls his hips steadily, already imagining the delicious sting of her nails down his back. But she doesn’t reach around him for his shoulder blades like he expects; instead, she paws under the covers until she unearths his hands where they’re pressed against the sheets, and grapples at them until he shifts and entwines their fingers. “Ah—Anna, I don’t bend that way,” he pants, trying to hold himself up on twisted wrists. “Hold on.” He shifts his weight onto his elbows, then sighs in relief. This works.

It must work for her too, because she responds—all in one breath—“Sorry – did I hurt you – I only wanted – this is nice I just – like it when we hold hands – it feels like – I don’t know – better – like you’re with me – y’know like – really _with_ me and—” She loses the train of thought completely when he manages to find the last yellow-green vestige of a faded hickey on her clavicle and nips at it.

He doesn’t know what he did to deserve this, to be the guy who gets to have this. The feel of her, tight and hot around him; her hair fanned out across the pillow, burning fiery red in the morning sunlight; her voice filling the air, honey-rich and constricted with want. Already they’re learning how to move together, a nonverbal language only they understand. It’s easier every time. Better every time.

Shit, he’s way closer than he thought he was.

Anna slides her feet up, knees squeezing his sides. “Deeper,” she requests, and he’s pretty well pounding into her now, so he’s not quite sure how to do that, but he tries his best. Tries until she loses her sentences, and then one by one her words; until all she has to tell him how she feels are shuddering gasps and satisfied moans and the squeeze of his fingers in hers. Until her movements get greedy and frenzied, lower lip caught in her teeth as she whines. He knows she can come like this, he’s certain of it, but it takes effort to stop himself from wrenching a hand away from hers to help her along; he just wants her to feel good, wants…

Her breath hitches and she tightens around him suddenly, and he lets himself let go, spilling inside her as they come together. He holds it as long as he can, eases every last drop of pleasure out of her, before he collapses, chest heaving. All the soreness he’d been pushing away comes rushing back; he’s probably lucky he didn’t get a charley horse. He’s _done._ “You okay?” he asks her collarbone, not sure what he’ll do if she says no or wants to try for three.

Luckily, she just gives an exhausted laugh. “Perfect.”

Anna’s hands disentangle from his as she reaches for him, movements gentle and soothing: fingers carding through his sweaty bangs, nails scratching at the short hair at the nape of his neck. He knows he should move—he can feel himself softening inside of her; she must be so sensitive, now—but the task sounds impossible.

He needs to make sure, though. “M’not crushing you, am I?” _Please say no._

“Not at all,” she promises, hands still stroking softly through his hair. The cadence of her voice is absurdly calming. “I like you just where you are, handsome.”

Time starts to lose shape; he drifts. “I might, uh… can I…?” He needs to warn her of something, he thinks, but the substance of it keeps slipping away.

“I was the one who wanted you to sleep in in the first place,” she teases, reading his mind. “You can rest, still. We’ve got time.”

“Jus’ for a minute.”

“Okay.”

“You gonna, too?”

“If you don’t mind,” she says, and he shakes his head against her, nuzzling into her skin. No, he doesn’t mind. “I _was_ having a very good dream, after all. Before I was so rudely interrupted.”

He snorts. “Right. ’bout your boyfriend.”

“Yup.”

“Kristoff.”

“That’s the one.” He can hear the suppressed laughter in her voice.

With gargantuan effort, he manages to shift his hips long enough to pull out of her; she makes an aching, vulnerable noise in the back of her throat at the loss. “Tell me about him.”

“Who, Kristoff?”

“Mmm. Is he nice?”

“I mean. Not really. He’s kind of a sourpuss,” she says, chuckling when he huffs indignantly against her. “But he’s kind. And funny, and a great listener. Fantastic in bed, if you’re into that sort of thing. Let’s see, what else…?”

He forgets what they’re talking about around the point she calls him handsome again; by the time she gets to ‘ _surprisingly thoughtful gift-giver,_ ’ he’s out like a light.

* * *

Winter closes out in a whirlwind.

Anna makes time for him when she can, but Elsa genuinely needs all the help she can get. The summit she’s been planning for the start of spring is apparently a huge deal: an attempt to hit the reset button with all of the nations she may have accidentally offended or scared off at her coronation. There will be delegates from nearly two dozen countries, all coming together to redraw trade policies, renegotiate alliances, and—of course—seal the deal with a lavish gala, a night of dancing and merriment to celebrate getting through a week of intense, hands-on diplomacy. It all sounds like hell on earth to Kristoff.

Anna, naturally, can’t wait.

He knows without needing to be told that this means they have to be more careful than ever—more eyes means more scrutiny, and the opinions of these visiting lords and ladies will carry much more weight than those of gossipy house staff or even the most judgmental among Elsa’s retinue. He’s a common ice harvester; he _needs_ to make a good impression. So as much as it pains him, he dedicates himself anew to learning all the ridiculous rules of court, and declines all but the tamest of Anna’s entreaties to steal a few moments alone together—barring a few spectacular exceptions.

Unfortunately, making himself moderately useful means interacting with about three times as many humans in a day as he’s generally prepared for or comfortable with, and it’s very clear that they have no faith in him whatsoever. It’s hard not to let it get to him when he overhears some of the things they say. Stupid, little things, like “And—will _he_ be there?” asked of Kai in stage-whispered fake concern as the steward escorts a group past the stables where Kristoff’s mucking Sven’s stall (what, like it’s better if he lets the shit pile up?); like the way everyone calls him _that man_ instead of his name.

He tries to do what Anna would do; to be the better person. Even if right now it means a better _kind_ of person—one who wears starchy, too-tight clothing, and practices his dance steps, and puts up with things like this:

“Kristoff, this is Sir Ambrose Higgenbotham, Duke of the Upper Meadows; he keeps track of the treasury and sits on Elsa’s advisory council,” Anna says, introducing him to the square-jawed, finely-dressed man he’s nearly run over with his cart in the market square. He didn’t mean to; Sven saw the carrot stall and got carried away, but—well. Somehow he gets the feeling making excuses isn’t going to help. “Duke Higgenbotham, this is Kristoff Bjorgman, our Ice Master and Deliverer. My, um—boyfriend.” He can tell by the way she wrinkles her nose that she hears it, too. How ordinary and pedestrian it sounds.

“Pleasure,” the Duke says, his tone letting Kristoff know that it very much is not.

“Sorry about all that,” Kristoff says, trying to mean it. “I don’t want to keep you; I’ve got deliveries to make, and I’m sure you’re both busy. Good to meet you, my Lord.”

He sticks out his hand to shake. The Duke looks down his nose at the proffered hand like it might be diseased, and walks away with a sneer.

“Bow, don’t shake. And it’s ‘Your Grace,’” Anna corrects, wincing, as soon as he’s out of earshot.

Kristoff deflates. “I thought you said almost no one was a Your Grace except clergy!”

“I did. Just—except for Dukes and Duchesses.”

“Well. Always nice to meet another member of my fan club.”

He almost can’t stand the look of sympathy on her face. “Kristoff…”

“Don’t worry about it. You’d better catch up to him, though—he doesn’t seem like the type who enjoys being kept waiting.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’d be better off with that jackass from Weaseltown, honestly,” she grumbles, before rising to her toes to kiss his cheek and rushing off to make nice with Duke What’s-his-name. She tosses a distracted “Love you!” over her shoulder as she goes.

At least someone does.

Once she’s out of sight, he groans and leans his forehead against the ice in the back of his wagon. He’s more embarrassed than he realized; the cool chill of it feels perfect against his flushed skin.

No one ever said it would be easy, right?

He still remembers those early days just after the Thaw, when every hour with Anna had felt like some sort of celestial mistake he had to take advantage of before the error was corrected, certain one false move would get him forcibly removed. It’s not like that anymore; it doesn’t scare him. And as for the physical feeling of discomfort, well—back then he’d fallen into bed each night with his jaw and cheeks throbbing, and it had taken nearly a week for him to identify the source of his new pain. That he was just smiling, that he’d _been_ smiling for days and hadn’t even noticed. His face had been so unused to the sensation that he’d literally ached with it, with his own happiness.

It’s like breaking in new boots, he reasons: even a perfect fit takes wearing in before it stops chafing. And he _is_ getting used to it. He’s just—happy, that’s all. Happy doesn’t always mean comfortable.

(Even Anna would agree with that, he thinks with a smirk. She’d walked funny for two days after the case of stubble burn he gave her inner thighs the other week, and had nothing but rave reviews about the experience.)

“Bjorgman! You’re taking up half the road!”

He blinks back to himself and looks up; Lars has come up behind him with his own cart, glaring over his pile of ice.

“Sorry, Lars,” he shrugs, clicking his tongue so Sven will step out of the way.

Lars takes his half-hearted apology as permission to keep following him as he gets moving. “Sounds like it’s gonna be some kind of a shindig at the castle.”

“Yep.”

“Must be nice.”

“Trust me, it’s not.”

“You kidding? The commission I’d make with a gig like that? You’ve gotta be rolling in it.”

Kristoff frowns, not appreciating the insinuation. “Elsa doesn’t just hand me contracts, you know. And she’s providing all the ice for the event herself—kind of a show of trust thing.”

“Drinking from the poisoned goblet,” Lars says with an understanding nod, and Kristoff rolls his eyes. He’d argue, but—not worth it.

“How’s prep for Lake Ironglass going?” he asks instead, desperate to talk about something other than the summit for five minutes.

“Oh—great!” And it does sound great. Kristoff listens with mounting envy as Lars describes the route they’ve picked, the gear they’ve acquired. The fishing on the lake is superb; they plan to eat like kings. Erik might even bring his lute, apparently. It sounds—

“There’s still room for you, if you want. We could use a fourth man.”

—perfect.

He opens his mouth to say he can’t, that he’s busy. “…I’d have to be back by the fifteenth…” is what comes out instead.

Lars’ eyes light up—he can see Kristoff’s resolve weakening. “You know I can’t guarantee that. But we should be back by the end of the summit, even if you miss the beginning. And it’s not like they need you for the fancy government stuff, right?”

“Right,” Kristoff echoes glumly.

Lars laughs. “Don’t look so depressed about it! I’m doing you a favor, man. C’mon. Where do you _really_ want to be: up on the North Mountain, doing an honest day’s work, or hobnobbing with Le Marquis de Twinkletoes dressed like—” he waves his hand at Kristoff’s clothing situation, which is deeply unfortunate, “—this?”

Kristoff hates to admit it, but he knows his answer.

“I’ll think about it,” he says. They both know he’s just putting off the inevitable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What could possibly go wrong?
> 
> I spent a nice chunk of time on artbreeder this week so I could introduce you all to [Erik](https://artbreeder.b-cdn.net/imgs/be6ffa3a30c8699924a77fe47b44.jpeg), [Aleks](https://artbreeder.b-cdn.net/imgs/f44be903ae7c4381c7fe36ca0148.jpeg) and [Lars](https://artbreeder.b-cdn.net/imgs/a529b9c4dec830a747f1d9c71c04.jpeg) without being like "Well Erik is basically Captain Haddock from Tintin, and Aleks has a Georg Zirschnitz vibe, and Lars is, y'know, Lars, from Steven Universe, only Swole," so you're welcome.
> 
> Chapter title from "She's So High" by Tal Bachman.


	9. hands from above to lean on

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, uh, Kristoff is about to have a serious case of No Good, Very Bad Day. Trigger warnings for bite wounds, animal violence, and mercy killing of an animal, plus severe weather survival.

“Do you have to go?” Anna asks, sounding horrorstruck. His heart sinks.

“I don’t—I don’t _have_ to go,” he admits, not wanting to lie to her, “but they could use the help. And I…”

Her lips quirk; a defeated, understanding expression that isn’t exactly a smile. “And you could use the break.”

His shoulders slump. “Yeah.”

“I—” Anna looks over her shoulder, nervous; they’re in a corner of the great hall, where Anna’s been supervising seating arrangements. No one seems to be paying any particular attention to them, but they’re far from alone. Anyone could overhear.

“I’ll be back before the ball,” he interrupts before she can decide what to say, trying not to sound too desperate. “Maybe not before everyone first arrives, but definitely, _definitely_ by then.”

“You don’t need my permission,” she says softly, and—oh. He hadn’t meant to do that; to poke at the old bruise of their first major disagreement.

He lowers his forehead to hers; smiles at the way she rocks onto the balls of her feet to press up against him in teasing counterweight. “You’re gonna throw a really great party,” he promises.

“Thanks. Try not to miss it, would you?”

He leans in to steal a kiss. “I’ll do my best.”

* * *

Everything’s gone wrong on their trip so far, and it’s still the most at ease Kristoff has felt in weeks.

Well, maybe _everything_ is a stretch. They’d found the shortcut Aleks had suggested blocked out by a rockslide, and the draft horses had gotten stuck trying to climb uphill on the workaround route Lars had devised to avoid having to backtrack, which lost them twice the time. Erik had rolled an ankle when they’d finally gotten back to the main trail, and Kristoff had embarrassed himself by slipping on ice trying to help Erik up… which would have been fine if Lars hadn’t then spent five minute laughing at him (“That castle’s turned you into a housecat, Bjorgman!”). Sven’s not as big or as strong as the horses they’ve brought, which stirs familiar complaints Kristoff imagines the guys could do in three-part harmony by now.

But still—between the blue of the sky, the invigorating cut of the mountain air in his lungs, and the beauty of Lake Ironglass itself, it’s hard for Kristoff’s mood to stay too low when they finally reach their destination, just before sundown.

The view really is breathtaking: the light coruscating off the wide, vast surface of the frozen lake, casting refractions onto the craggy walls of the mountain cliff abutting the plateau; the tall evergreens circling the area, so picturesquely snow-encrusted they look like the sugar-glazed decorations of a gingerbread house. If Kristoff were to traverse the mountain about a quarter-turn and keep going a half-mile more uphill, he knows, he’d find Elsa’s ice palace—but the tents they’ve packed will have to do for shelter instead.

“Well, no use in pretending we’ll get started at this hour,” Erik says, tying up the horses. “Might as well make camp.”

They’ve purposefully packed light to make the trip easier, so they draw straws to decide who’s sharing between the two tents. Kristoff sighs in relief when he gets Erik; Lars is best handled in small doses, and Aleks snores even worse than Anna does. After that, they naturally split to their tasks, so used to working with each other there’s no need for discussion. Erik heads out onto the ice with an auger to drill a hole and set the fishing line, Kristoff sets up the tents, Aleks starts a fire and gets a kettle of tea going, and Lars checks on Sven and the horses and gets them properly settled for the night.

Kristoff keeps an eye on Erik as he mallets down tent pegs, a blend of long-ingrained habit (basic ice safety; someone should always be watching) and vague curiosity. He finds himself wondering if Erik always takes fishing duty on trips like this, or if he fills different roles when harvesting with different men. As Guild Master, Kristoff knows, Erik never gets weeks off from the mountains like the rest of them do—if he’s not up with Aleks and Lars and Kristoff, he’s up with the Arneson brothers, or with the rowdy bunch from the eastern hills, or any of the other dozens of harvesters in the Guild. Or he’s on his own, monitoring the lakes and riverbeds or tending the paths. It’s an all-encompassing job, at least in the colder months, and an important one—a position Kristoff had often used to think about trying to rise to, one day.

He’s a little surprised to realize he hasn’t thought about that in ages now. Since he met Anna, his future has become vague, undefined—a little less certain, but a little less lonesome, too. He hadn’t realized just how used to that he’s gotten.

“Keep making that face, it’s gonna stick like that,” Aleks notes lightly, catching the other side of the pole Kristoff had been wrestling with and helping him keep it in place with thoughtless synchronicity.

“What face?” Kristoff asks, even as he schools his features into something a bit more neutral.

“All pensive and contented. If it sticks like that, no one’ll recognize you.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Kristoff shrugs, knowing the barb had no bite behind it. He counters with one of his own: “Maybe with a new face you people will finally leave me alone. That’s not a downside, that’s the dream.”

“A Desperate Pursuit of The Sweet Release of Anonymity: The Kristoff Bjorgman Story,” Aleks dubs aloud. Kristoff rolls his eyes. Aleks’ search for the perfect title to Kristoff’s biography is a habit as old as their acquaintance; it was Aleks who’d taught Kristoff to read, when they were both boys at the orphanage. He’d said that books were about important, interesting people—and that if they both worked hard enough, one day they’d have books written about them, too. Of course, by the time they hit puberty the game had evolved from a way to encourage one another to the easiest path to pissing one another off, but still. “How’s that working out for you with a princess on your arm?”

For a second, Kristoff honestly considers opening up. Not about everything, but the basics—how stressful court has been lately, at least. Aleks would care; might even have advice. But then… he thinks about Aleks, and the three jobs he juggles just to afford the small room he rents over Mr. Teigen’s bookshop, and the idea of complaining about never knowing which utensil goes with which of the five courses his meals have been lately is unthinkable.

“I’m getting by,” he grunts noncommittally instead, and they continue setting up the tents in silence.

Within the hour, camp is ready and Erik’s caught enough for dinner. As the fish roasts, he adds some berry preserves his wife Lise made to the tea, and then Lars, with a grin, takes out a flask and adds some aquavit, too. The poor man’s attempt at gløgg may not be fancy, but it’s delicious going down and warms Kristoff from the inside out.

Lars manages to bolt his serving down in just a few bites. “That all we could manage?”

“You want gourmet dining, talk to Kristoff, not me. He’s the expert now,” Erik says.

“But _Dad_ ,” Lars whines plaintively, in a not-inaccurate imitation of Erik’s eldest son Felix, “I’m still _hungry._ ”

“Catch more yourself, if you’re that hard up.”

“But it’s dark out!”

“And?”

Kristoff closes his eyes and lets the hum of their well-practiced routines wash over him. In hindsight, a lazy evening around the campfire with other harvesters is exactly what he’s needed. They trade jabs and stories easily, no one caring if someone interrupts himself to belch without apologizing, or licks his fingers to enjoy the last of a good meal. It’s distinctly uncivilized, and Kristoff relishes every second. When they’re done eating, Erik breaks out his lute and they pass it around—singing bawdy drinking songs and soft ballads with equal confidence.

“Do the sad one,” Lars requests, handing the lute Kristoff’s way. “The one I like.” And despite the lack of _please,_ it’s suddenly easy to remember that this is the reason he started working with Lars in the first place.

Kristoff’s lute is hardly the first thing he ever bought for himself with his own money—there were a hundred practical things before it, gear and clothes and food and lodging. But outside the occasional treat for Sven, it’s almost certainly the first thing that he bought for himself that was truly for _himself._ That he wanted, but didn’t actually need.

He’d been sixteen, with no steady place to stay. He’d saved up for months to make the purchase, then agonized all fall over what to do with the instrument. Taking it up the mountain with him seemed an unforgivable risk, but what choice did he have? He had no home to leave it in, no person he could trust it with. The trolls couldn’t keep it safe from the elements. So he’d brought it harvesting and endured the snickers and sarcastic jabs of the older men, the way they threatened to play keep-away with it just to see him get mad. It’s his reaction, he knows, and not the lute itself that got their attention—no one ever gave Erik shit for his playing—but he didn’t know how to turn it off, then. He still doesn’t. How to just not care what people say to him, how they treat him. So he’d kept to himself as well as he could, and would sneak off to practice when the sun went down and work ended. Even if doing it away from the community fires meant his cold-bitten fingers could barely feel the frets.

And when those men had found him, somehow all it had taken was one voice, sharp and judgmental— _Hey, shut up! Can’t you hear he’s **good?**_ —to put an end to their taunts.

Lars may be the kind of person who thinks _I call ‘em like I see ‘em_ is blanket permission to be a jerk about whatever he wants, but. He also called Kristoff as he saw him, once, and had found him worthy. Had spoken up for him when no one else would.

That means a lot, still. It means something every time he does it.

So he plays the sad one Lars likes. And that one silly rhyming song after that, the one Erik’s kids chant when they play skipping games in town, just to make him get misty-eyed.

When Kristoff finally curls up to sleep hours later, Anna’s scarf bunched under his head as a makeshift pillow, he decides that despite the slow start, this is going to be a great trip.

* * *

It’s not a great trip.

For the first two days, they cut and haul ice at a brutal pace, and Kristoff finds himself frustrated at how easily he falls behind. He’s never thought of himself as particularly weak or _domesticated,_ as the guys like to tease, but he can’t deny that his arms ache more quickly than they used to, that actions he shouldn’t have to think twice about sometimes leave him winded. Other winters, he’s been out on the ice every day, or near to it—when seasonal work is all you have, you make the most of it. But lately… maybe he _has_ been spoiled, lately. The idea chafes, but he’d be an idiot to ignore the evidence in front of his own face.

What really grates, though, is that it’s still work he loves. Even when it’s hard—or maybe _because_ it’s hard. Using his wits as well as his strength; having to work to see and solve problems from all angles, with nothing but his body and his tools to do it. The quiet of it, how whole hours can go by with only the simplest and most practical of sentences exchanged between them. No one expects him to be any more or less than what he is, here; it’s what he can do that matters.

He’ll just have to work a little harder until he finds his groove again.

Or at least, that’s the plan. But on day three, the cloud cover thickens and the wind begins to pick up.

“Almanac say anything about a storm?” Aleks asks, his glasses not quite able to hide the way he keeps glancing up worriedly at the sky.

Lars glares at him. “Would I pick this week to come up here if the almanac said anything about a storm? I’m not stupid.”

“I’m not calling you stupid, I’m just _asking_ —”

Kristoff frowns. “Guys.”

“Well it sounds like you think I’m an idiot.”

Aleks scoffs. “I _do_ think you’re an idiot, but that has nothing to do with why I’m asking about the weather.”

“Guys, shut up.”

“I don’t control the weather, Dahl. Maybe the queen’s on the rag or something, shit.”

“Watch your mouth!”

 _“Guys,”_ Kristoff barks, harsh and measured, and they finally snap their jaws shut. Bottling his anger at the dig at Elsa—they can have that argument another time—he jerks his chin toward the shore. “Look.”

They turn as one, following his eye line. There, at the lip of the ridge encompassing the lake, a pack of wolves is slowly stalking the edge of the forest, snaking their way ever closer to where Sven and the horses are feeding, still tied to their posts. They’re sitting ducks—and a good hundred yards away from where the men are standing, with a field of ice between them.

Erik, who’d been pointedly ignoring their bickering to this point, lets out a long, slow breath. “Shit.”

Kristoff tries to focus, to block out his spiraling thoughts— _he shouldn’t have let Lars tie up Sven, he knew it wasn’t necessary, he knew Sven wouldn’t go anywhere, now he’s helpless—_ and come up with a solution. Something rational.

“There’s four of us; we’ve got the saws,” Aleks says in a low voice. “They’ll be scared of us, let’s just run at them.”

“Run on the ice, waving a saw?” Erik repeats, unimpressed. “You’ll trip and gore yourself before you’ve made it twenty feet. We’ve got to—”

 _“Sven!”_ Kristoff cries in anguish as the closest wolf loses patience and leaps into the group of unsuspecting prey. Screw rational. He doesn’t think ahead, doesn’t think at all—he drops his saw and _moves,_ feet slip-sliding desperately on the frozen lake as he sprints as fast as he can. The feeling of his worst nightmares.

The horses rear and scream as the wolves dive upon them. Sven is a whirling dervish, bucking his hind legs and tossing his antlers to try to fight them off, but there’s five of them and only one of him, and he’s tethered to the post.

Within twenty agonizing seconds, Kristoff reaches the shoreline; he bends as he moves, grabbing an abandoned pike pole and waving it above his head. It’s as good a weapon as any, and he lights upon the wolves in a fury, beating them back with a wordless, frenzied shout.

The fight, such as it is, is quick and bloody. Kristoff can feel the tear of teeth and claws at his limbs, but he swings and stabs back with single-minded intensity. After nearly a minute, the wolves suddenly turn tail and run; Kristoff allows himself to feel a deep, fuming satisfaction at that until he realizes the other men have caught up, waving their saws and shouting. They take stock quickly: one of the horses is a goner—a wide gash on its stomach spilling viscera onto now-crimson snow—but the other two seem fine enough, and Sven—Sven—

 _“I’m okay, Kristoff,_ ” Kristoff hears himself say, kooky and kind, as he checks every inch of Sven over, and—he doesn’t _do_ that. He doesn’t do the voice in front of people, not where they can hear and judge and make fun, but that doesn’t matter now. He needs to hear it, needs to know it’s true. _“It’s okay.”_

Once he’s satisfied Sven hasn’t sustained more than a few minor cuts and scratches, he staggers back, suddenly dizzy and intensely nauseated.

“Kristoff? Kristoff!” Aleks yelps, jumping forward to brace him and ease him to his knees.

“Is he alright? Hey, Bjorgman. Man. Take it easy. I—I take back the housecat thing,” Lars says, reaching for a waterskin and shoving it into Kristoff’s clumsy, uncomprehending hands. What…?

“Drink,” Aleks prompts softly, reminding Kristoff what on earth he’s supposed to do with the waterskin as Lars talks over him:

“—That was amazing. You’re a mountain man, through and through.”

“I agree,” Erik says, clapping Kristoff on the shoulder and squeezing, affectionate and grounding. Though his voice is complimentary, his next words cut unexpectedly deep: “You’re wasted in that castle, boy.”

“Someone’s—” Kristoff swallows. _Don’t throw up._ “Someone’s got to—” He nods desperately towards the wounded horse where it kicks and foams on the ground, braying in fear and pain. “Please, I can’t…”

Lars gapes, and turns to Erik. “Fuck. Did you bring…?”

“In my pack. Aleks, son, can you—”

“Yeah, I’ve got him. C’mere, Kris,” Aleks says, trying to lift Kristoff back onto his feet. Aleks never calls him that anymore—no one’s called him that in years—but Kristoff won’t budge. Not until he unties Sven and hugs his neck tight; breathes in the familiar scent of his fur. “Kristoff, come on.” With a death grip on Sven’s bridle, Kristoff lets himself be led away. Aleks walks them towards the fire, backs to the horses as he keeps up a soothing monologue Kristoff doesn’t process a word of. His whole body is a spring coiled tight, waiting, waiting, until—

_BLAM!_

The sound of the pistol shot echoes through the mountain walls, but it’s the ensuing quiet—the drop of a body, the sudden lack of sounds of struggle—that resonates. The contents of Kristoff’s stomach leap into his throat; he stumbles to the ground and heaves, losing what had remained of his lunch.

It’s far from the first time he’s witnessed the dangers of his job. He’s seen men get cut to the bone and fall through thin ice; seen them trampled by spooked horses and lose limbs to the cold. He’s not stupid—he’s always known the risks. But he’s never felt like this before; this intense, aching need to not be here anymore. To be _home._ God, he wants to go home.

“Kris, your arm. You’re bleeding.”

He blinks down at himself, staring stupidly at the way a dark stain is growing on the sleeve of his sweater. “Oh. Huh. Guess one of ‘em got me.”

Aleks nudges the waterskin back into his hands once more. “C’mon; rinse and spit. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

* * *

None of them have much desire to stay at the lake after that—and down a horse, even getting the ice they’ve already cut home will be a challenge. With the temperature dropping, Erik decides it’s too late in the day to start heading back; they call it an evening and plan to set out in the morning, bright and early.

The weather has different plans.

While they’re eating a subdued dinner—a meat stew Kristoff pointedly doesn’t think too hard about—it starts to snow, fat flakes dropping thick and fast. The others surprise Kristoff with their above-and-beyond kindness, electing to bunk three to a tent to let him curl up in the spare with Sven. He’s touched, but sleep still eludes him when he tries to get any rest. Every time he closes his eyes, all he sees is blood in the snow; he’s certain that the howling of the wind outside is masking the howling of wolves.

It’s still coming down just as hard when they get up the next morning and decamp. The wind’s blowing faster, now, and they all avoid stating the obvious: this is no brief squall. Somehow they’ve lucked into an unexpected mid-March blizzard.

They have to get creative with the caravan—repacking as much into their rucksacks as possible to leave room on Lars’ wagon for ice, as well as using the sleds. It’s a recipe for slow, arduous travel, but at least they’re going downhill. Kristoff consoles himself with the knowledge that it will only be hard hiking for a little while; once they can make it to the western pass—a narrow alley between two peaks—they can rejoin the main trail and be home in no time. In the meantime they make miserable going in near white-out conditions, but it’s progress.

Kristoff and Sven are taking up the rear when he hears it. The telltale rumble.

Avalanche.

“Left! Go left, left, left!” he screams, cutting Sven free from his ice-laden sled without a second thought, and the party as one scrambles off the slope. _Get out of the path; move horizontally. Don’t stop running._

Kristoff breaks for the trees and doesn’t dare look behind them—looking takes time, and he knows what’s coming. The avalanche roars above them, and they’ve got seconds, maybe, precious seconds. Already the ground is rising up; shifting beneath him. Kristoff glances downhill to count his companions, and why is Lars still on the wagon, why didn’t he leave it and run, why—?

 _Fwoom!_ The avalanche tears through mercilessly just as Kristoff and Sven reach the outer edges of the open trail; he braces them against a tree and clings, hoping for the best. Though he knows it must only be a few moments until the worst of it has passed, each one feels interminable—the whole world white and screaming all around him.

And then it’s gone.

“Lars?” he calls, uncertain, gratified when he hears the echoes of Aleks and Erik hollering the same thing—“Lars?! Lars!”

Kristoff shakily regains his feet and stumbles downhill, joining the search. There’s a vague lump in the path they can only hope is the wagon; they grab their pickaxes and shovels and get to work digging it out. Kristoff’s just started to lose hope when Aleks gives a sudden whoop of joy and yanks hard on whatever it is he’s found. He pulls a gasping Lars from the snow pack by an outstretched arm, and then they’re all talking at once.

“Breathe, boy—”

“—such an idiot—”

“—were you thinking? You almost—”

“—take it easy—”

“—so stupid—”

Lars wheezes, still catching his breath. “You don’t leave money on the mountain,” he pants, repeating the common harvester’s aphorism to never abandon good ice. They groan, even as he adds, “Didn’t want all of that to be for nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” Kristoff says, so mad he could spit. “It’s not worth your life, Lars.”

“Thought I’d be faster. Do you think…?” Lars looks to his right. Somewhere in there, a horse is buried.

“Poor thing’s probably panicked itself into a heart attack by now, even if it did survive,” Erik says softly, and they all bow their heads, acknowledging the loss. Between the deserted product, now-buried equipment, and the dead horses, this trip has now cost them more than it ever could have earned. A piss-poor way to end the season, to say the least—and that’s assuming they make it home without any more mishaps.

“I’m sorry,” Lars whispers, and Kristoff starts; he doesn’t think he’s ever heard those words come out of Lars’ mouth before.

Still, though. If Kristoff were Erik, he’d be furious. It’s Erik’s job to make sure all harvesters are safe. That they avoid unnecessary risk.

This whole trip has been one massive unnecessary risk.

He could blacklist Lars for this. And if it were Kristoff in Erik’s shoes—if he had that power—he’d be so, so sorely tempted.

“Nothing to be done for it now,” Erik sighs, stooping to lift Lars to his feet. “Come on, up you get.”

And that’s that.

They debate for a bit over what to do next. There’s no way to use the western pass now; the avalanche will have certainly blocked it off, and they can’t trust the snow under their feet to follow the trail anyhow. Erik argues they should retrace their steps and take a different route entirely, but Kristoff’s loath to go up to go down. Aleks thinks any movement is better than none, and Lars is being uncharacteristically quiet, so they load up what they can onto Sven and the remaining horse and get going on foot, back the way they came. Or at least, they try to.

The snow is coming down so hard and the tree line has been so transformed by the avalanche it’s almost impossible to find their way. They wander for what feels like hours, taking any viable route that looks safe no matter what direction it leads in. Kristoff works to keep his mind carefully blank as he treks, to focus on the next obstacle, the next ten minutes, because if he thinks about anything else he knows he’ll break down. None of this had to happen. He didn’t have to be here. He wants to be _home._

 _Head clear, Bjorgman,_ he chastises himself, and re-wraps the turquoise scarf tighter around his face to protect his chapped cheeks from the wind.

It gets dark before they find any sign of a safe shelter, or a path down; they talk it over as a group and make the decision to keep moving. After another hour or so, they come across a long, jagged crevasse, about ten feet wide on average and stretching as far as they can see in either direction—which, granted, isn’t terribly far at all given the poor visibility.

Wait. “Is this… the western pass?” Kristoff gasps, doing the math in his head. It’s technically possible, and the terrain seems right. They’ve climbed so far up and over that they’re now directly on top of where they meant to be, _still_ with no way down.

“Fuck.”

“Hold on, I think I see—” Aleks scrambles off into the darkness. “Guys, come here!”

About fifty yards away, they catch up to Aleks, where he gestures proudly at his find: a natural ice bridge traversing the gap, rough-hewn but stable-looking.

“No way,” Lars says immediately, before Kristoff gets the chance to. It’s strange; he’s not used to this contrite, cautious version of his… friend? Huh. Friend.

Only now that there’s someone else to play naysayer, Kristoff finds himself giving the idea actual consideration. “What’s the alternative, though? Keep wandering? We can’t just stay out here all night.”

“Even if we’re just going to set up camp where we stand, better to do it on the other side of that bridge than here,” Erik says. “We don’t know what will happen to it in the sun.”

“We don’t know what will happen to it right now!” Lars shouts.

“And we won’t know unless we try. I’ll go first with the horse, then—” The rest of Erik’s sentence is drowned out as all three of them object at once. “Quiet! I’m the guild master; it’s my job.”

“You’ve got _kids,_ man,” Lars says, shaking his head. “I’ll go first. See if it’s safe.”

“You’ve already almost been buried alive, asshole,” Aleks counters. “I’ll go.”

Before anyone can argue with him, Aleks steps onto the ice, arms windmilling as a strong gust of wind threatens to topple him right over into the drop. “Saints, it’s slippery!” he yelps, but he manages to catch his footing.

They all watch with baited breath until he makes it safely to the other side.

“No cracking or cleavage,” he reports back with a shout. “I think we’re good!”

Erik goes next, leading the horse. They go agonizingly slow, taking their time, but they make it—leaving Kristoff, Sven, and Lars left on the near side.

“You go first,” Kristoff murmurs. “That way there’s someone on either side to catch you, just in case.”

Lars is pale and shaking. “Doesn’t seem fair to you, though.”

“I’ve got Sven, I’ll be fine.”

“Sven is _more weight—_ ”

“I insist, okay? Go, Lars. We’ve got you.”

Carefully—ever so carefully—Lars crosses.

Just the two of them, now.

“What do you think, buddy?” Kristoff asks in an undertone, leaning in close and scratching behind Sven’s ears. “Alone, or together?”

 _“I wanna go with you, Kristoff,_ ” Sven tells him, eyes wide and trusting, and okay then. That’s what they’ll do.

He grabs a tight hold on Sven’s headstall with a gloved hand, and takes the first step onto the bridge. Another. He hears a groan beneath his feet, and backpedals until they’re back on solid ground.

“You have to cross!” Erik shouts, and he shakes his head.

“I know, I know, just—” He slips his backpack off his shoulders, sighing in relief to finally be rid of its crushing heft. “Stand back; I’m gonna toss this over first, okay? Ease off some weight.”

They give him room, and he clutches the straps as he spins himself once, twice, shotput-style, before releasing the pack with a furious shout. He feels an awful tearing sensation in his arm as he lets go, and—ah. That would be his bite wound reopening. Wonderful.

The pack lands with a satisfying thump on the other side, and Aleks nabs it before it can slide back over the edge.

“Okay,” he mutters, bouncing on the balls of his feet to psych himself up. “Second time’s the charm, we’ve got this. We can do this.” (Without meaning to call up the memory, he can hear echoes of Anna from the weekend they met— _I’m ready to go; I was **born** ready!_—and shakes it off. Not helpful. Not now. He has to focus.)

He and Sven walk together back onto the bridge, inching along with cautious steps. The ice creaks and complains under their weight, but he keeps his eyes straight ahead. Seven more feet. Six and a half.

_Snap._

“Go, Sven!” he orders, leaping backwards instinctively as he urges the reindeer on with a slap to his flank. He scrambles blindly behind him until his feet hit snow, watching as the ice bridge cracks and crumbles, falling into the chasm. The sound is terrible. The sight is worse. Sven’s hind legs skitter as the bridge tips downward, but he makes it to safety; Kristoff lets himself breathe again. It feels like an age before they hear the muffled _wha-crunch_ of the ice hitting the bottom of the crevasse.

There’s a ten-foot distance and what he guesses to be near a five hundred-foot drop between him and everyone else.

“I—I’ll go back around.”

“There’s nowhere for you to go!” Lars shouts, vehement. “We’ve got Sven _and_ your provisions, and the pass is solid snow, even if you could find your way back down. What are you gonna do, tunnel through? Alone? With no food? Use your head, Bjorgman!”

“I’m not jumping. That’s suicide.”

“I’m not saying to jump, I’m saying stay the fuck where you are!”

“Just give us a minute to think, Bjorgman,” Erik says. “Stay calm.”

Calm. Sure. He can be calm.

_If Elsa were here—_

But Elsa’s _not_ here. He has to stay in the moment.

They try tossing him a rope to start a bridge, but it’s no use—the powder is too loose to make an anchor from, and there’s nothing else to tie off on close enough. None of the trees in sight are tall enough to reach from one side to the other, but even if any were, they couldn’t cut them down; their saws are buried with the wagon under the avalanche.

“You’re going to have to jump, Kristoff,” Erik says softly, but Kristoff still hears it loud and clear over the wind.

“I don’t—I—” He can’t. He’s not brave like Anna is. He’s never done anything like that before in his whole life; just _jumped_ without a backup plan. Not when he had a choice. “Toss my pack back over to me. Then I’ll have food and flint, and I can stay here while you all get help.” A part of him knows as soon as he says it that it’s an absurd suggestion, so he’s not exactly surprised when Erik goes off on him:

“Get _help?_ We’re lucky if we’re three days from making it back to any kind of civilization. Then it’s three days back to fetch you, _if_ the storm doesn’t get worse, _if_ the paths stay clear, and then that’s assuming we can find you at all. If we split up now, you’re dead.”

A part of him knows.

But the rest of him…

“If I _jump_ I’m dead!” Kristoff argues back reflexively. He _can’t._ “Quit fooling around. Toss it back.”

“No!”

“It’s mine!”

“What are you, five? Quit panicking and get serious!”

“I’m not panicking, I’m just—” Kristoff takes a deep breath in. The air is freezing cold; the rest of him is, too. “Fine. You want it? Keep it. Go on without me.”

_“Kristoff!”_

Turning away from Sven’s baleful, horrified face is among the hardest things Kristoff’s ever had to do, but he does it. He makes it a step, then two, then three, all the while ignoring the way the others desperately shout his name.

And then there’s an ominous rumble and shake, and he’s knocked to the ground before he can get any further. Another avalanche, he realizes, as they all turn and listen. Not close—not right on top of them—but somewhere on the mountain. Close enough to matter. Close enough to know that things could change at any minute.

“Kris, come on,” Aleks pleads.

He hates this. He _hates_ this.

But he can’t just stay where he is.

“Toss the rope back over,” Kristoff says, returning to the ledge and thinking hard. “That way if I fall short, you can belay me.”

“There he is; now he’s using his head,” Erik praises, and Aleks throws back the line. Kristoff loops it around his thighs and ties it off tight at his waist, numb fingers struggling a bit with the knot. He waits for a joke from Lars, for _Any last words?_ or _Sure that thing can hold you after all those cakes in the castle?,_ but there’s nothing. Just worried silence.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Here goes nothing.”

He jumps.

Even as Kristoff is arcing mid-leap, he knows with certainty that he’s not going to make it.

“Help—!”

His torso crashes painfully into the lip of the ledge at an angle, knocking the wind from his lungs, and there’s nothing to hold onto but snow. His strength gives out on him, weak fingers scrabbling for purchase. He’s slipping. He’s going to fall.

“Grab him!” Erik shouts, and three pairs of hands clamp down on his arms, holding him in place. Kristoff releases what little air he’d had left in a howl of pain as they squeeze his reopened wound.

They pull hard, gaining a few precious inches, but with the way the ledge juts out, he can’t even brace his weight against the cliff wall to help them. There’s more of him dangling in the air than there is to grab onto; he’s too heavy, and he knows it. “Pull!” They yank again. Lars’s purchase gives out from under him in the slick ice; his flyaway foot kicks Kristoff firmly in the jaw. Kristoff reels at the force of it, causing the others to lose their grip; he’s slammed painfully back against the ledge in the same place, so breathless he can’t even cry out. His vision goes black at the edges.

“He’s slipping—!”

They manage to catch him by his sleeves, stopping him from sliding down any further, but that’s all they can do. They’re not at the right angle to pull him up. The rope is slack around his body; they’ve all let go of it in panic to hold onto him. There’s no backup plan. No cushion. No safety.

His thoughts race wildly. This is it. He’s going to die. He’s going to die out here, and they’re going to have to tell Anna what happened, and—it’s going to ruin the summit. Her ball. She’s worked so hard on it. He has to tell them something to tell her, something to make it better. That he’s sorry. That he wasn’t scared. That he loves her. But he can’t force his tongue to move.

“Come on, we’ve got to _do_ something!”

Suddenly, as if by magic, Kristoff feels the rope around him go taut. Inch by inch, he is lifted—dragged upward in fits and starts. It’s slow going, but it’s _going;_ somehow, they’re doing it! After several anxious minutes of labor, enough of him crests the ledge that he can pull himself to safety; he looks up to see Sven biting hard at the other end of the rope, hooves planted firmly in the snow as he yanks. It was _Sven_. He pulled Kristoff up with nothing but his teeth.

“Holy shit,” Lars pants.

Kristoff stumbles gratefully toward Sven on wobbly legs, dodging the others where they fall to the ground in exhaustion. He collapses against the reindeer, wrapping his arms tight around his best friend’s neck for the second time in twenty-four hours.

“Thanks, buddy,” he croaks weakly he manages to find his breath. “Thanks, guys.”

“That reindeer of yours is worth his weight in gold,” Erik says, and Kristoff clings a little harder. Yeah, he is.

It’s too early to celebrate, he knows. They’re far from being out of danger—still miles from town, the storm raging around them, with no shelter and no plan. But if he can survive _that,_ he’s suddenly certain that he can survive anything. He’ll figure it out, one way or another.

He’s going home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY EVERYONE BREATHE WE MADE IT TO THE OTHER SIDE! 
> 
> Chapter title/the sad one Lars likes is the José González cover of "Heartbeats," which--the internet tells me the lyric should be "hands OF above" but we're not doing that, so.


	10. the jealousy, the greed is the unraveling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sunday!
> 
> Content warnings for some meanspirited gossip directed our boy's way, under-negotiated participation in pain play and use of restraints, as well as lackluster aftercare. Hot tip, kids-- talk to your partner EARLY AND OFTEN if you're interested in this stuff; running with it in the heat of the moment can blur boundaries you didn't know were there, even if both parties are into it! (Also, of course, as ever, please seek sex advice from somewhere not-fanfiction and do your own research if you desire to replicate any of this.)

Kristoff honestly isn’t sure just how many hours he’s been awake. More than a day, definitely—maybe two. The sunrises hadn’t meant much with the storm still so thick; they’d ended up snowed in for he doesn’t even know how long after finding the trail, stuck sheltering in place lest they endanger themselves further. He’s starving and exhausted and probably two weeks overdue for a shave; he cannot say with any certainty what day it is.

But he’s home.

They crest the last ridge and find the friendly lights of Arendelle spread out before them, candles in windows making the whole town glow orange and inviting. What had been a full-on blizzard in the mountains is just a gentle, charming snowfall here, like something out of a storybook. The harbor is full of unfamiliar ships; strains of music drift up from the streets.

He’s so relieved he could cry.

They reach Erik’s house first, a cozy cottage on the outskirts of the village. His kids must have been watching for him, because they run cheering up the path long before he can give them any warning, screaming “Papa, _Papa, PAPA!!”_ at the top of their lungs and tackling him to the ground in a pile of giggling, joyful limbs.

(It makes Kristoff miss his troll family, suddenly and quite desperately. He knows how it feels to be Erik, play-roaring in defeat as tiny creatures compete over who can tickle him hardest. How indescribably wonderful it is, to have people who are always _this_ excited to see you. With all the wolves and Duke Higgenbothams of the world, he’d kind of forgotten it was a thing you could feel like.)

Lise leans in the open doorway, balancing a bowl of something delicious-smelling on her hip. “Well, look what the cat dragged in. Took you long enough,” she teases as Erik stumbles towards her—more difficult than it sounds, with Felix on his back, Jonas dangling like a monkey off one arm, Ada dragging him by the hand and Helga clinging to his shin as he walks.

“So sorry to keep you waiting, darling,” he grins, leaning in to peck her on the cheek. Kristoff stifles a laugh at the way he, Lars and Aleks all turn away in synchronized union to give them privacy.

Lise _does_ laugh, then, and comes closer. “You all look even worse than I thought you would; I’ve been hoping to give you boys a hot meal. Please, there’s more than enough—won’t you come in?”

“If you insist,” Aleks says, beaming, and disappears into the house. Lars goes too, with a quiet _thank you_ Kristoff has to strain to hear. And then it’s just them and Sven.

“You’re welcome, too, Kristoff,” Lise reiterates softly, and he hesitates, unsure what to say. He doesn’t want to be rude, but—who’s he kidding? He’s been way ruder over way less.

“I appreciate it, but… some other time, maybe. I’ve got somewhere I have to be.”

“Alright, but let me just—” She runs inside, returning in moments with a steaming plate of rolled lefse. “For the road?”

“You’re an angel,” Kristoff groans, mouth already full as he straight-up devours the pancakes. He leans over her shoulder to shout into the house, “Erik, you married an angel!”

“You’re damn right I did! Piss off and get your own!”

Well.

With that in mind, he’s off like a shot.

He’d run, if he could, but the streets are too busy—clogged with revelers and onlookers in their fanciest dress. The closer he and Sven get to the castle, the worse it is; the bridge is so congested with carriages and chattering retinue he can barely get by.

The ball. Tonight’s the ball.

He curses as he realizes he’s even later than he’d thought; Anna’s probably been worried sick. With effort—and perhaps more than one too-gruff “Ex _cuse_ me” while shouldering through crowds of oblivious jerks—he manages to make it to the stables. There, he’s finally able to slip his pack off his screaming shoulders and put up Sven’s tack.

“It okay if we skip the full brush-down tonight, pal?” he asks, and Sven literally head-butts into him, plowing him backwards and out the door. “Okay, okay. Message received. I’ll tell her you said hi.”

He heads around to the door and enters the front hall, the room so crowded with people Kristoff can’t even spot any familiar staff members. He doesn’t see Anna, either, but that’s not surprising—there’s nowhere she’d be but the ballroom.

“You’re dripping on the carpet,” an unfamiliar voice tells him.

Kristoff’s hand flies up to his face, jumping idiotically to the conclusion that his nose must be bleeding—more because nothing would surprise him at this point than for any logical reason. When his fingers come away dry, he blinks at the finely-dressed man, lost; that earns him a deeply unimpressed frown and a glance pointedly downwards. Kristoff looks at his feet: he’s tracked in snow, a trail of muddy wet grossness seeping from the soles of his boots into the fancy rugs. Shit.

“Uh, thanks. I mean. Sorry,” Kristoff mumbles, becoming acutely aware of his scraggly partial beard, his torn and bloodstained clothing, his whole general lack of ornament and grace. The good news, at least, is that none of these people have enough context yet to figure out who he is. If he can just make it to his room without too many more folks spotting him, he can nip this in the bud before it becomes a problem. Anna and Elsa have worked too hard for him to make them a laughingstock.

He hugs the wall as he sneaks towards the staircase, knowing full well that there’s nothing he can do to make himself actually inconspicuous. He’s huge, and unseemly, and _dripping,_ to boot. But maybe, if he’s really lucky, he can—

“Kristoff!”

There’s a blur of motion at the corner of his eye.

He turns toward it instinctively, and before he can really process the fact that the blur is Anna, that she’s sprinting towards him in heels definitely not made for running, she’s leaping: crashing into his arms and curling her legs around his waist.

It’s… indescribably wonderful.

He catches her easily, grunting as her knees hit his aching, damaged ribs—but then she’s kissing him, and it’s harder to care that it hurts. He’s strong enough for this, at least. Always. “You’re back,” she squeals happily against his lips between kisses, like he didn’t know that, then adds, “Tickles,” as she rubs her flushed cheek against his stubbly one. He laughs, and captures her mouth again, spirits soaring despite everything. For a second there, he’d thought he’d never see her again, and now she’s here: feather-light and kinetic and _perfect_ in his arms. He wishes he could crawl inside of this feeling and never leave; she’s like the cool touch of a concerned hand on a fevered brow—all he wants to do is lean in and soak her up. _Anna. Finally._

Eventually, her kisses settle, simmering down from passionate to languid. People must be watching them; he’s going to get her dress filthy. They have to stop. Reluctantly, he pulls away just enough to nose at the line of her jaw and inhale. She’s put on perfume for the special occasion, one he doesn’t recognize—lilac, maybe. “Hey, gorgeous. You look… wow.”

“Hey yourself. I missed you,” she says, small and quiet, letting her forehead fall against his. Her tiny hands cradle his face. “I hated missing you.”

“Missed you too,” he breathes. Impossible to convey just how much he means it.

She finally leans back to look at him; reaches to tug fondly at the scarf around his neck. “You’re wearing it.”

“Of course I am.”

“You look awful.”

“Well _you_ made it, so—”

“Hey!” she laughs. “No, I mean—what happened up there? We thought you’d be back days ago. I was worried.” She strokes his cheek with her thumb; he tries not to wince at the way even that gentle caress stings as she brushes past the tender spot where Lars accidentally kicked him. He hopes the near-beard hides the bruise, grateful his facial hair grows in more brown than blond.

He doesn’t know how to tell her about what happened. Doesn’t _want_ to tell her about what happened. But he can’t say nothing. “Blizzard. Avalanche blocked out the western pass, so we had to take the long way around—and then the storm kicked up worse. Trapped us.” Close enough. None of that’s a lie, at any rate.

“Are you okay?” she asks, reluctantly finding her footing as he sets her down.

“Just—glad to be back,” he sighs. The sounds of the party intrude on the moment, not letting him forget for even a second where they are. That everyone’s seeing her cling to him when he looks like this. “Sorry I’m late. How’s the summit been?”

“Great, actually! I won’t bore you with the details, but Elsa’s on cloud nine. Don’t tell her; I don’t think she’s noticed yet that she’s happy and I don’t want to freak her out.”

He laughs. “Good! That’s—that’s so good. Still any room left on your dance card?”

Her eyes narrow. “You could have been the first man in the ballroom and you wouldn’t ask for a spot on my dance card,” she accuses, but her voice is bright and teasing.

“Okay, guilty. But I can go up and change, at least. Clean up a little; come back and hold your drink for you.”

She can’t quite hide the way she lights up at the notion. “Are you sure? I mean—you should rest. It’s just a dumb party.”

“Don’t let Elsa hear you say that.”

“I’m serious. I don’t need you to keep me company.”

He’s certainly tempted—the promise of a clean, warm bed and a dark room is almost infinitely preferable to starched collars and boring small talk with entitled elites. But… it kind of feels like that only reason he’s still alive is the promise that he’d get to keep her company. He wants _her,_ and here is where she needs to be. So he’ll just have to be here, too. “Give me a half hour,” he says, and she kisses him again, gleeful.

“Thank you thank you thank you!”

“Sure,” he says, but she’s already gone.

* * *

It takes an alarmingly long time for the water in the wash basin to run clean.

He shaves and grooms as quickly as he can, relieved when the ghoul in the mirror turns into someone a little more familiar. The bruise on his cheek is grisly, but he doesn’t dare try and cover it with any of Anna’s powders or creams—someone might catch him sneaking into her room, and he’s sure he’d just make it look worse regardless. He’ll have to come up with a story for how it happened; something rakish and charming that makes him sound cool, and not like the idiot who almost got himself killed for a commodity the queen can whip up with her bare hands.

Putting on the suit Anna’d had tailored for him is agony. The fabric feels almost vindictive, tighter on purpose in all the places most likely to irritate his injuries. He stares at King Runeard’s pocket watch for a long moment where it’s tucked away in his chest of valuables, debating clipping it to his waistcoat, but decides against it. Given the way things have been going for him lately, it might fall to pieces the second he touches it.

This will have to be good enough.

When he gets back downstairs, though, he’s not sure why he bothered. He feels oafish and half-feral as soon as he rejoins the party, certain that everyone can see right through him. _A mountain man, through and through._ That’s what Lars had said.

Here at the foot of the stair, he can just barely see through to the ballroom. He catches sight of Anna immediately, tossed in the middle of a swirling, choreographed dance. As he watches, she trips on her own dress, catches herself, and surges back into the throng with a breathless, self-deprecating smile. She glows. She’s effortless in this space, even when she’s failing.

He could never be effortless in this space, even if he tried for a hundred years.

“—see the way she draped herself all over him?” he hears someone mutter, and his back stiffens as he tries to identify the source. “Positively lurid.”

“Well can you blame her, poor thing?” a female voice clucks. “No one but the ice queen and that savage for company. Given the circumstances, her being a little loose is probably the best we can hope for. At least she throws an entertaining party.”

His blood boils; he can feel his face turning red. He’s not sure which option bothers him more—if they’d recognized him coming down the stairs and are trying to get a rise out of him, or if they have no idea he’s here and they’d be saying it anyway. He still can’t figure out who’s talking, but he tries to tell himself it doesn’t matter. These aren’t the _real_ fancy people, anyway; the real fancy people are on the dance floor or hovering around Elsa’s dais. These are just the people who work for the fancy people, and of course they don’t know what they’re talking about. He can let it go.

“It’s not them, it’s just her nature,” a new person says. “She’s been flighty and impulsive since the day she was born; they say King Agnarr had terrible trouble with her. I hear _that’s_ why they had to keep the gates shut—she made Her Majesty worse.”

Kristoff clenches his fists so hard he nearly punctures the skin of his palms. Every instinct he has is telling him to fight back, but he knows he can’t. Not without making a scene and proving them right. There’s nothing he can say or do that wouldn’t play right into their meanspirited fantasies, and he won’t do that to Anna and Elsa. He forces his feet to move, lurching towards the ballroom. He just has to get to Anna. That’s all.

“Good lord, is that _him?”_

“What happened to his _face?”_

Surely there must be people at this gala who aren’t vicious snoops or salacious gossips—Anna said Elsa was on cloud nine, for Pete’s sake—but hell if Kristoff manages to pass a single one. It’s coming at him from all sides: that Anna can’t like him much, if she was willing to marry Hans after three hours and hasn’t even officially acknowledged her courtship with Kristoff after so many months. What a shame it is she’s set her sights so low; she really is quite pretty. Doesn’t she know she could do better?

 _Well, they’re not wrong there,_ a nasty little voice in the back of his head reminds him. Anna _could_ do better. He can’t really blame them for wondering why she’s with him—he’s been wondering the same thing since the first time they kissed.

And—and Anna _is_ impulsive. He loves that about her. But there’s nothing official about the two of them, not in the rules of her world. They’re not betrothed, he’s not a somebody. Nothing binds them together but Anna’s whim, and his good luck.

Only it hasn’t been so good lately, has it?

He tries to deafen himself to the whispers all around, to focus on Anna on the other side of the room, but all he can hear is the last thing she’d said to him— _I don’t need you to keep me company._

And no, she doesn’t. She’d be so much better off with someone else at her side. Someone who already understands the rules; who doesn’t need her to tell him what to do. Someone who doesn’t endanger himself for a living. Someone, anyone but him. He tugs at his collar, suddenly suffocating in the claustrophobic crush of the crowd. He can’t _be_ here, he can’t—

But he knows this feeling. It fills him up like an avalanche, roaring and deadly and bitter cold; the same sharp, queasy yearning he’d had when the wolves came. He doesn’t want to be here. He wants to be _home._ But—he is now, isn’t he?

And if he feels just as homesick here in the castle as he did on the mountain, where on earth is he meant to go?

* * *

Anna throws herself into the festivities, eager for a distraction to keep from counting down the seconds until Kristoff comes back. A dance with a visiting earl turns into two, and then another, until she’s dizzy and overheated in the stifling ballroom.

“One more?” the earl asks as the orchestra picks up a new tune, and she holds a hand up in defeat.

“I think I need some air; thank you though.”

She makes a beeline for the door, her feet carrying her past the terrace and across the courtyard. The snow’s finally stopped, but the air is still pleasantly chilly against her flushed skin. She heads towards the bridge, eager to feel the breeze off the water and catch her breath.

The last thing she expects to hear is Kristoff’s voice as she passes by the stables. Or rather, Sven’s.

_“But Kristoff, we only just got here!”_

“And now we’re leaving again. It’s fine; we’ll let Lise feed us dinner.”

Lise? Who’s _Lise?_

_“Shouldn’t we tell Anna we’re going?”_

“She’ll just try to stop us.”

Uh, _yes, she certainly will!_ Anna prepares herself to charge around the corner and confront him, but stops short at his next thought.

“—I’m the last thing she needs right now. Fuck, I’m such an idiot.”

_“Anna doesn’t think that.”_

“Anna’s biased.”

She ducks against the stone wall, keeping out of sight as she settles in to listen. She knows she shouldn’t eavesdrop, but… she also knows he’d never say these things to her face, no matter how gently she asked. It’s hard to pass up this rare opportunity to find out what’s actually going on with him.

_“But if you told her what you’re feeling—”_

“It wouldn’t change anything! I don’t want to just _feel_ better, okay? I want to do what’s best for her. And that’s… that’s not me. Clearly. I’m never going to measure up. Look at me.”

_“You just look funny in the suit, that’s all. It’s what’s underneath that matters.”_

“What’s underneath is still _me,_ Sven.”

_“Yeah. I like you.”_

“I like you too, buddy, but you didn’t hear them back there. What they called me. What they called _her._ I don’t want any part of it. The writing’s on the wall; I’m sick of fooling myself, here.”

It’s never quite clicked before, the way he uses Sven to assuage doubts he’d never confess to having without an explicit nudge. The way he sublimates his wants, like he has to be someone else in order to admit to fragility or show himself any kindness. She’s forcibly reminded of their fight all those months ago, the day he first told her he loved her. How out of sorts he’d felt; how isolated.

_‘Excuse me for wanting to get away for a few days and do something I know I’m good at. Excuse me for not thinking I needed to check in with you before doing my job. Y’know, the one you had to **title me** for before we could even be seen together in public.’_

She’d had no idea he still felt that way. He’d tried to tell her, right before he left, but—she’d believed him when he’d brushed it off. Why had she believed him?

“It’s better for everyone if we just bail out now. Maybe later, we can—Anna!” he jolts, startling when she rounds the corner, hand flying to his heart.

“Please don’t go,” she whispers.

It’s the first time she’s had a proper look at him since he went upstairs. Gosh, but he’s handsome in that suit. He’s clean-shaven, too, but she’s pretty certain the dark spot on his jaw is a bruise, not a shadow from the low evening light. What _happened_ up there?

“How long have you been listening?” he asks, going pale.

“Long enough that I’d really like to know who Lise is.”

“What? No one. The guild master’s wife. I—Anna—” His mouth hangs open, jaw working as he tries to find something to say. It’s not something she can help him with, probably, but. That’s never stopped her before.

“Just—tell me you’re sorry,” she prompts, wincing at how desperate it comes out.

“What?”

“Tell me you’re sorry, and we’ll talk about it, and—and—I don’t know. We’ll figure it out.”

He stares at her like she’s speaking in tongues. “You’re… not mad?”

“Oh, I’m furious with you,” she corrects him with forced lightness. “But I love you, and you’re scaring me, so I just—later. We can do all of that later. Right now, I need you to tell me what’s going on.” Her voice cracks as she adds: “Please.”

“I don’t know how to… I can’t…”

“Try,” she begs, wondering how on earth this night derailed so fast. Wasn’t he just kissing her, in front of the whole crowd? Weren’t they just okay? “For me.”

He stares at her with haunted eyes, swallows hard, and tries. For her. “Those people…” His gaze drops to his hands as he talks, callused fingers nervously wringing against sturdy knuckles. “Um. I don’t—I’ve never… felt like I belonged anywhere. Not really. Not all the way. And these past few months in the castle, it was almost like—well, it was the closest I’d ever gotten, I guess. But it wasn’t real. That party in there, that’s what it’s supposed to be like, and it’s—I’m just holding you back, Anna. Everyone can see it. I’m a mess. That isn’t my world.”

“That’s not true.”

“Of course it—”

“No, it’s not. It’s mine, so it’s yours. That’s how this works. You belong to me,” Anna insists fiercely, then squeaks, horrified, when the sentence hits the air and she hears it aloud. “With! With me. A-and Elsa, and Olaf, and Sven. Obviously.”

But there’s an expression on his face she’s never seen before, her backpedaling clearly going in one ear and out the other. She doesn’t have a clue what he’s thinking.

“D’you mean it?” he breathes.

And there it is. The thing they don’t talk about. The only thing they talk about.

She wraps her hands around his. It’s absurd—his massive hands dwarf hers—but she entangles their fingers, and tries to calm his fretting. “You can be mine,” she promises softly. “If you want to.”

The sheer relief on his face threatens to take her breath away. “Please,” he says.

“Okay,” Anna murmurs in assent. “Okay.” They stand like that for a long moment, quiet in the cool spring breeze, until she breaks the silence. “This is stupid,” she says.

“What?”

He looks terrified, like he’s scared she’ll take it all back. She scrambles to explain. “Hiding by the stables. It’s stupid. Let’s—let’s go to bed.”

“But the gala—”

“They’ll live.”

“But your _sister—_ ”

“She’s fine.”

“But the—”

 _“Kristoff,_ ” she snaps, and the way his spine straightens at her tone is unmistakable. “I don’t care about any of that right now. _You_ are my priority. I’m choosing you. I pick you. So just—shut up and let me, okay?”

He takes a deep breath. “Okay, Anna.”

He’s said her name a thousand times, but it still affects her every time he says it like _that_. The bedroom _Anna_ , the one that only she ever gets to hear. The one that sounds the way _Your Highness_ is supposed to but never has, reverent and awed and honor-bound.

She hops up on her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek, quickly. “You’re right though, people will look for me if I just disappear. Give me five minutes to make my excuses while you put Sven back, and I’ll meet you in my room.” She narrows her eyes at him. _“Five minutes._ Don’t make me go looking for you, Bjorgman.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yes ma’am,” he grumps, and her heart unclenches just a little. She’s got him all sarcastic and joke-y again. That’s something she can work with.

“Sven, you’re a superstar, no complaints. Extra carrots in the morning. And Kristoff—” She squeezes his hands one more time before letting go. “I’m glad you’re home,” she says, and hopes he’ll actually hear it.

* * *

It takes a bit longer than five minutes, and a few jokes from Elsa Anna’s not entirely sure how she feels about (“He got back an hour ago; honestly, I’m surprised you lasted this long!”), but Anna’s good to her word. She sneaks away as subtly as she can, glad when the dull roar of stringed instruments and conversation fades to the background behind her. She slips her shoes off once she hits the back servant’s stairwell, sighing in relief at the feeling of the cool stone under her stockinged feet. She maybe got a bit ambitious with the heels, tonight.

And really, as much as she’s been looking forward to the summit, she can’t say she hates the idea of curling up for a quiet evening in with Kristoff—even an emotionally charged one. She refuses to let herself worry. They’re past all that, aren’t they? They’ll talk, and get to the bottom of whatever’s going on with him, and everything will be better in the morning.

Her door is closed when she reaches it; she raps her knuckles against it twice before coming in anyway. “Kristoff?”

He’s stripped to his drawers, twisting awkwardly in front of her mirror to try and get a good look at—at—

Her jaw drops.

His face is the least of it. His whole torso looks like one enormous bruise. In fact, most of it _is:_ a nasty, painful-looking contusion wrapping around his flank from under his left armpit to his solar plexus, all the way down his ribs—a blue-purple so dark and deep it looks almost black. She’s seen sailors pulled off their feet by loose booms walk away with less damage.

The way she’d _jumped_ on him—

“Kristoff, what happened?” she gasps, dropping her shoes and running to him. Up close, she can see he’s absolutely covered in nicks and scratches and smaller, less frightening bruises. Plus, there’s a series of scabbed-over punctures on his right forearm that looks like—did something _bite_ him? Her hands float ineffectually in the air, unsure of where it’s safe to touch. A riotous pressure is rising in her chest, an emotion she can’t quite name. Panic, surely, but something else.

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s clearly not, it’s—when did this happen?! Is anything broken?”

“Erik didn’t think so.”

“Who’s _Erik?”_ she cries, feeling like she’s going out of her mind. _Fury,_ her brain tells her. The emotion is fury. She pushes it back down. She told him they’d handle that part later.

He frowns at her. “Erik Garborg. The guild master. Lise’s husband? You know who Erik is; I work with him all the time.”

“Erik’s not a doctor!”

“He’s been trained in field medicine.”

“That’s not—” She’s trying so hard not to be mad at him, but it’s _difficult_ when he gets all obtuse and stubborn like this. He’s hurt, and she’s upset, and it won’t solve anything, but she’s so—she’s so—“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I made it home, didn’t I? I’m fine. You’ve been looking forward to this party for weeks.”

“And you thought _leaving me_ would help me enjoy it?” she snaps, before getting ahold of her tongue. “Never mind, that’s not—if I’d known—”

“Why should you need to know? I can handle myself!”

“Oh, is that what this is?” she demands, gesturing broadly at his injuries, and she’d wince but that would require regretting saying it and she doesn’t. This is absurd. “Yeah, you’re doing a real bang-up job!”

He whirls on her, pointing. “That! That is why I didn’t want to say anything! Because I knew you’d get like this, and make a huge deal of it, and lord it over me that I shouldn’t have gone up there. I _know,_ okay, you told me so. I don’t want to hear it.”

That one stings. “You think I care about who’s ‘right?’ You’re _hurt!_ You can’t just hide away to lick your wounds like some misunderstood lone wolf when you’re actually injured. If you’d just talked to me, I would have taken care of you. I would have—we didn’t have to—” She swallows, trying desperately not to cry about this, and tries again. _“Why_ are you—?”

“Because I don’t want to talk about it! Some things you just—don’t talk about!” he sputters, and he would have walked away. He would have disappeared into the night without so much as a note. These are the things he doesn’t want to talk about; the things she was apparently better off not knowing.

“That’s not for you to decide!”

“Oh, of course not,” he mocks. “You decide everything.”

“I’m not the one being unreasonable here—I just want to know what the hell going on with you. You don’t get to shut me out.”

“Is that an order? Highness?” he asks, something dark and dangerous and desperate flashing in his eyes.

They’re both breathing hard, now. “You know what? Yes. It is.”

“And why should I listen to you?” he snarls.

 _Because I’m Anna, and I’m in charge._ She steps forward, drawing to her full height like her spine’s on a marionette string, a force outside herself correcting her posture and pulling her taller. “Because you belong to me. You’re mine.”

It’s impossible to miss the way his whole body shakes when he hears it; the way his eyes fall shut in relief. She feels like her chest has cracked open. It’s never felt like this between them before, something harsh and untamed. She can see it, now: how much he needs her to get them through this; how much he’s trusting her to know how.

She can’t let him down.

 _A little hard work has never scared me,_ he’d said once. Like it wasn’t a problem if she was a problem, sometimes.

Something inside her comes alive.

She walks a slow circle around him, taking in the extent of the damage. His back doesn’t seem quite as bad as his front, and nothing seems to scream for immediate medical intervention. Now that she’s looking closely and she’s not distracted by the unexpected facial hair, she can see the tender shadows under his eyes. He must be exhausted. When was the last time he slept?

“Anything on your legs I need to know about that I can’t see?”

“No,” he grunts.

She waits. His brow furrows; he still hasn’t opened his eyes. Eventually, in the tense silence, his expression relaxes the barest amount.

“… No, Anna. I promise.”

Breathing comes a little easier, now that he’s named her properly. “Get me out of this thing, would you?”

She turns around for him, and without a word, he undoes all the complicated hooks and eyes at the back of her dress and lets it drop. It pools at her feet, leaving her in just her shift.

“Hair, too?” he asks quietly, and goosebumps rise at the back of neck at the feeling of his breath there.

The idea of his hands at her scalp—carefully removing all of the combs and pins holding her chignon in place, taking his time—feels almost indecently indulgent, and for a moment she’s tempted. But a plan is starting to form, now, and she doesn’t think it has room for that, no matter how nice it sounds. She shakes her head.

“Get on the bed,” she says, voice raw and deep. “On your back.”

He trudges over and obediently arranges himself, supine, on the mattress. Seeing him there, framed by the posts of her canopy bed, the plan gets firmer.

“Arms out,” she orders softly as she wanders to her dresser. She digs around the bottom drawer until she finds what she’s looking for: a pair of impractical, intricate silk scarves. The material slides smoothly between her fingers, cool and sleek. For a moment, she thinks about the blindfold, tucked away in its hidden spot in her vanity, but decides against it.

She wants him to see her, tonight.

He’s staring at her as she walks back to the bed. For the second time, she can’t place the expression on his face; has no idea what he might be reading on her own.

“Anna, I didn’t mean—”

“Shhh, I know,” she hushes, running her fingers through his hair. He settles. “Scooch back.”

He moves until his fingertips brush the edges of the headboard. She stops him there, and slowly, deliberately—so he can see her every move, so he can object if he wants to—she lashes his left arm to the bedframe by his wrist. Her knots, she knows, are sloppy and inexpert; she’s certain he could break out of them in a heartbeat if he tried.

She’s also certain that he won’t try.

She walks around to the other side of the bed and starts tying his other hand. “You don’t get to run away when things get hard,” she whispers, shakily. “You don’t get to leave without saying goodbye.” Her vision is maybe a little blurrier than she’d anticipated. She pulls the next knot tight; slips a finger under and tugs to make sure it won’t cut off circulation. “There. Now you’re not going anywhere. Are you?”

“No, Anna.” 

“Good boy.” The response is instinctual and instantaneous; Anna frowns, unsure of whether or not she likes the sound of it. She looks him over to gauge his reaction, but finds it almost impossible to focus on his face. The cuts and scrapes and angry, extensive bruising cry out for attention; for mending. She has to _fix_ this. “I don’t know what you heard, what they possibly could have said to you, but. Those people down there? They don’t know a thing about me, or you, or us. _I_ do.” She kisses his forehead, and tries to internalize the soft, grateful sound he makes at the gesture. “That mountain—” Her voice quavers, and she bites her tongue. It won’t help anyone if she breaks down. She has to master herself, to tamp down on her frustration and her fear. She’s got to be in control. “That mountain doesn’t have any claim on you. None. _I do._ ”

He meets her gaze, intense and daring, the message in his eyes as clear as if he’d said it aloud: _prove it._

“You want bruises, Kristoff? I’ll give you bruises.”

It’s the only warning he gets before she swoops down and sucks greedily at his neck. His whole body arches up into it, back bowing in an attempt to surge up closer to her mouth—but with the pressure of one cautioning palm on his shoulder, he goes limp beneath her. “Good. That’s good. Easy,” she says, leaning back to admire her handiwork. The fresh hickey is a flushed pink against his throat, but she knows it won’t stay that way. Tomorrow it will be just another bruise, blending in against all the rest. Hmmm.

“That’s not going to be enough, is it?” she murmurs. “Not if I want you to feel it. I’ll have to work harder. What do you think—is that what you want?”

He moans.

She leans away from him. “I asked you a question.”

“Yes, Anna. Please.”

“Okay.” She keeps going, nipping at the edge of his shoulder, the dip of his collarbone. She works slowly and methodically as she marks him, savoring each one. “Whose are you, Kristoff?” she asks, finding a clear spot on his chest and setting herself to it.

“Y-yours,” he gasps.

She blinks hard, forcing herself to focus on maintaining suction against his skin. _Don’t cry._ “That’s right,” she says finally, grazing the new hickey with her teeth. “You’re mine. And I’m yours. We belong to each other. Don’t we?”

_“Yes.”_

“Then show me. Show all of them,” she says, rucking down her shift around her shoulders to expose her décolletage more fully. “Make it so they can see.”

She leans over him, allowing him access, and he eagerly presses his lips to her as ordered. Her knees go a little weak and her eyelids flutter at the sensation—he’s always been unfairly good at this—and she breathes deep as he absolutely covers her in hickeys. She longs to climb onto the bed and get closer, can feel her usual words of praise and encouragement bubbling up, but she holds herself back—keeps silent and settles for bracing her hands on either side of his torso for balance. This… isn’t that kind of night. She’s pretty sure he’s not even hard.

Eventually, she loses count of how many times he’s marked her. It’s only then that she pulls away.

“Your turn,” she growls, and gets back to work seeking out unblemished areas of his chest she can claim. She focuses on her task, on the taste of salt on his skin, on the repetitive ritual of it. When her back starts to ache from leaning, she finally gives in and crawls up onto the bed, hovering over him. He squirms and pants beneath her, balking when she brushes too close to any of his injuries; she eases off every time, nuzzling him in gentle apology before placing her next mark.

“Anna, please,” he rasps, at some point. The sound of his voice startles her; she’d thought he was as zoned out as she was. “I want—”

“Not tonight, you don’t,” she counters. “Tonight you just have to listen, and take it. What I say goes. You can do that for me, can’t you, handsome?”

“Yes, but—you said. You said you’d—you promised—” he stammers, and she pauses. She doesn’t recall promising anything to him other than what she’s doing right now, but this doesn’t work if he can’t trust her to follow through.

“What did I say, honey?” she asks, stroking the backs of her fingers across his jaw. “Tell me.”

“Said you’d—make me feel it.”

She frowns; raises an eyebrow. “Feel what?”

He flexes against his restraints, like he wants to physically move her hands where he needs them. “Anna, please,” he says again, soft and helpless and so, so frustrated.

“That’s not how this works,” she reminds him. “You’ve got to use your words.”

He huffs and squeezes his eyes shut, thinking hard. She knows this is difficult for him—knows that words fail him just as easily as they come to her, when he’s on the receiving end in bed together. But him not owning up to the things he wants is what got them here in the first place. Still, somehow she’s not surprised when the words he finally comes up with are her own: “That mountain doesn’t have any claim on me. You do. I want—I want to feel it. Want to feel you.”

_Huh?_

It clicks right before she opens her mouth to ask for clarification; she traces her thumb along the greening edge of the wine-dark contusion painting his side. “You mean…?”

“Do it,” he goads. “Do it. Please.”

Her clit throbs at the notion, but even as keyed up as she is, Anna has the presence of mind not to do it _there._ Her fingers dance across his body, seeking a compromise—when she lights upon an archipelago of smaller, fainter bruises on his waist, she digs her fingers in with a simple, “Mine, Kristoff.”

He flinches and cries out, twisting—not away, but upward and _into_ her grip. Something within her seizes at the sound, heart clenching… and another part of her thrills, hearing the ecstasy in his voice. _He asked for it,_ she reminds herself, dipping down to get her mouth on him, further blurring the line between pleasure and pain. He keens when she scrapes her fingernails across his shoulders, pulling him closer as she finds a new target.

It feels too good, too reckless, too foolish to be allowed, but any concerns she might have voiced melt in her mouth like candyfloss at the way Kristoff reacts to her. She’s _never_ seen him like this. Every injury she touches seems to drain the tension from him; every press of blunt nails or sharp teeth against a wound eases him bonelessly further into the mattress. (Like a massage, maybe, she thinks. Pressure needed where it hurts most; momentary pain leading to greater relief.) She feels drunk on the noises he’s making—hisses at the intense sting that soften to dazed, quiet whimpers and, eventually, contented sighs. The sounds go straight to her core; she squeezes her thighs together and ignores it, intent on giving Kristoff _more_. More marks, more sensation, until it crowds out the lingering hurts of the mountain, whatever unwelcome voices may be echoing in his head, and all her can feel is her.

Eventually, she runs out of viable real estate; she slows and then stops her ministrations. She wants to say something—knows she should—but the sentiment eludes her. She crawls off the bed, pressing delicate kisses to the inside of each wrist as she unties him. He groans a little as he pulls his arms carefully against his chest, and she finds herself at a loss. She wants to give him an _actual_ massage; to work away the stiffness she’s sure accumulated in his shoulders from being held in the same position so long, not to mention the knots he always gets harvesting. But—it might not be safe to have him on his stomach, and she’s reluctant to keep him awake any longer than she has to, now. Better to bring this night to an end.

“Kristoff.”

“Mmm.”

“You alright?”

With effort, he blinks up at her, eyes glassy and dilated. “Mmhmm,” he manages, sluggishly.

“Good. Well—try and relax, okay?” she says as she pulls on a dressing gown and toes into her slippers. “I’m going to go get you some ice. Love you.” She slips out the door before he has a chance to reply.

It’s unsettling, the feeling of returning to reality that hits her as she enters the hallway. Out the windows, she can see the last of the carriages pulling away; the castle is still abuzz and awake, servants cleaning and tidying, showing the overnight guests to their rooms. Anna had lost all sense of time, there in the low light of her bedroom. It’s strange to think that all of these people just went about their evening. She sticks to the staff passageways as she makes her way to the cellar, not wanting to run into anyone in her pajamas. As she walks, she absent-mindedly takes down her hair from its complicated bun, sighing in relief at the way the now-slackened tension at her scalp seems to reverberate downward, relaxing her whole body.

The right thing, she thinks, would be to send for a doctor. But that would mean explaining why she waited so long, and more importantly would mean waiting even longer. Fetching anyone from the village at this hour would take an age, and a thorough examination could go long into the night. Kristoff doesn’t need to be poked and prodded—he needs _rest._

Well. Not that she’d let him have any.

It’s only as she’s filling a handkerchief with ice that she realizes it would probably be more efficient to get Elsa—a regulated personal flurry wouldn’t melt, or be uncomfortable for Kristoff to hold. But facing her sister in this moment sounds even more impossible than getting a doctor, and she pushes the thought away as she ties off the bundle.

He’s asleep when she gets back, curled up on top of the sheets in a protective ball on his good side. Seeing him like that—exposed and vulnerable—all of the doubt and terror Anna’s been suppressing since she found him trying to sneak out bubbles over. Tears spring to her eyes, and with no one here to see them she finally, finally lets them fall.

Oh, _Kristoff._

She moves to the bed and places the bundle of ice gingerly atop his bruise; his body coils around it instinctively, like it’s a teddy bear or something. Brushing his hair back from his face, his exhaustion is that much more apparent—she runs the pad of her thumb across the thin, delicate skin under his eye, as though the dark circles there could be wiped away like dust from a neglected piece of furniture. It might, she realizes with a start, be the softest part of him.

She’s never thought of him as fragile before.

She’s taken him for granted—his strength, his solidity. His _presence._ If she’d waited even five more minutes to go for air, he might have been long gone. And as mad as she is at him for trying to run away, she’s even more furious with herself for missing the signs. She has no idea how long he’s been feeling like this—how long he’s needed her to notice. _You could use the break._ It had been right in front of her, and she hadn’t seen it; not really. She lays herself down next to him, careful to give him his space, and lets her eyes drink their fill. It feels important to commit him to memory tonight.

It’s a long, long time before she falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that wasn't so scary, was it???? We're fine, everything's fine! Everyone is making very healthy choices and is communicating well and there's nothing to worry about because they've all gotten an A in therapy and coped with their trauma. /sarcasm
> 
> Chapter title/fic vibes in general from Joni Mitchell's "All I Want." And as ever, please do drop me a line if you enjoyed it, as hearing from you is the best part of my whole week.


	11. an ocean between us just like me: deep and blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for a light manic episode toward the end.

Kristoff wakes up alone, feeling like his entire side is on fire; it takes him a long few groggy moments to get his bearings as the details from last night come rushing back. Bright afternoon sunlight streams in through the windows. He’s definitely in Anna’s room, which begs the question of where _Anna_ is—he can count the number of times she’s woken up earlier than him in the eight months they’ve known each other on one hand.

He can’t believe how close he came to walking away from her. The things he accused her of.

It all seems so obvious to him now, with a clear head and a long-overdue night of sleep under his belt. How easily he let his fears get under his skin. Anna’s not the airheaded, wanton dilettante those assholes had described, she’s— _she’s_ the mountain in his life. Solid. Landscape-defining.

And it’s not that he’d forgotten, but he’d let those visiting dignitaries’ snooty entourages convince him it didn’t matter. He’d hardly known which way was up by the time he’d gotten to her room, yelling at her for—what? Being stupid enough to care about him? Wanting him well? And she hadn’t let him scare her off. She’d lit his way home, tethered him to it until it felt real enough that he could believe in it again. Without him even having to ask.

_(If it were true love, you’d just know,_ she’d said once, and—maybe there’s something to that, after all.)

And maybe… maybe it’s not about the nobility, or the avalanche. Maybe it’s just him, the baggage he’s spent his whole life running away from. Maybe when you grow up losing one family after another, getting lonelier and lonelier, the simple thing is to pretend you prefer the isolation. Maybe, instead of making each successive loss harder, it makes it easier to walk away—until you’re ready to give up the most wonderful thing that ever happened to you without a fight. 

He won’t make that mistake again.

Upon stretching out, he quickly discovers the unpleasant wet spot beneath him, where a hand-tied sack full of ice has melted. He vaguely remembers Anna saying she was going to get him some, before he fell asleep—but if this is how bad he feels having iced all night, he can’t say it bodes well for a speedy recovery. Every inch of him is sore and aching, at best. His side throbs painfully. But even so, he swears he can feel the difference between her love bites and the injuries he sustained on the mountain; that the bruises she’d dug into somehow hurt less than the ones she didn’t. Like her touch had blunted them, siphoned off their sting.

As if he’d summoned her, the bedroom door opens and Anna breezes in. His eyes jump immediately to her neck, eager, but she’s wearing a high-collared dress—hiding any marks that may have lasted the night. A change of clothes for him is tucked under her arm; he breathes easier knowing he won’t have to get back into that suit in order to leave the room.

“Oh good, you’re awake! I got you some arnica salve; Dr. Hagen will be up in just a sec to take a look at you, but he said it was alright to put this on right away.” She clears her throat as she opens the jar and steps closer. “I, uh, I told him you’re in here because I sent you straight to bed last night and let you use mine since it’s more comfortable, and I slept in yours. So…”

“Got it.” He smiles, jerking his chin toward the grandfather clock in the corner. “I can’t believe you let me sleep in so late.”

“I didn’t _let_ you do anything; I couldn’t wake you for love or money. Hold still, this is going to feel cold.” He steels himself, but it’s not so bad. The arnica feels amazing, actually, and Anna’s quick and precise in her movements as she dabs ointment onto his bruises, careful not to press too hard.

He sighs in relief. “Jeez. I guess I really overdid it, huh?”

“I guess,” she echoes neutrally. There’s something strange in the tone of her voice; an unfamiliar timbre he can’t quite put his finger on. But then—of course she’s being weird with him; he almost _left her_. There’s no way she’s just going to let that lie.

“Listen, Anna. I’m—we should talk about last night.”

Her head snaps up; he hadn’t realized just how intently she’d been avoiding his gaze until she meets it, now. “You—”

“Mr. Bjorgman!” Dr. Hagen booms, entering without knocking, and Anna springs backward off the bed, putting a good four feet of distance between them. Kristoff fights the urge to roll his eyes; the doctor _told her_ to put the salve on, there’s nothing to be jumpy about. They weren’t doing anything wrong. “Her Highness tells me you ran into some trouble up the North Mountain.”

“You could say that,” he shrugs, gesturing with his wolf-bitten arm at his chest, and how it’s more purple than anything else at the moment.

“Well, I’d better leave you to it,” Anna says, backing toward the door. “Doctor-patient confidentiality and all that. Feel—feel better, Kristoff.” And she’s gone before he can read any more into it, that high, reedy quality in her cadence.

Dr. Hagen inspects Kristoff carefully enough that he’s glad Anna left the room. In the light of day, some of the bruises are very obviously _not_ from injuries he sustained on the mountain, and he’s pretty sure she’s known Dr. Hagen since she was a kid—she might not have survived the mortification. The doctor, for his part, remains focused and professional, but Kristoff’s cheeks burn all the same.

“Any trouble breathing?”

“Knocked the wind out of me when it happened, but not since. I’ve broken ribs before; I think I’d know if—”

“I’ll be the judge of that, Mr. Bjorgman. Deep inhale for me, please…”

* * *

Kristoff’s dismissed nearly an hour later with strict instructions to keep his chest bound to prevent swelling, an ice schedule to stick to, a poultice to stop his bite from getting infected, and more arnica and herbs for the pain. He wants to find Anna, but finds himself too ravenously hungry to concentrate—which, considering he hasn’t had a good hot meal in a week, is probably forgivable. He stops by the kitchens determined to gorge himself on leftovers from the ball, but when the palace chef Gunnar learns he’s returned, he insists on cooking Kristoff a full lunch instead. It makes Kristoff feel sheepish and repentant all over again; all these people welcoming him home like he belongs here, and he’d been so quick to ignore them in favor of the bitchy commentary of strangers.

Stomach finally full, he sets off in search of Anna. He can’t find her anywhere, which doesn’t exactly bode well. It means she doesn’t want to be found; that she’s avoiding him. It’s probably what he deserves, given how he acted. He starts constructing a speech in his head as he wanders the halls, equal parts apology and explanation. He’s not looking forward to it—he still doesn’t want to have to tell her what he and Sven went through, to see the look on her face as he describes what happened on the mountain—but she deserves the truth. Even the ugly parts.

“Kristoff? Kristoff!”

He turns, knowing even before he does so that it’s not the sister he’s looking for—but then Elsa’s barreling into him, trapping his arms against his sides in a tight hug. He’s not expecting it; before he can get over his surprise and try to hug her back, she’s already leaning away from him, cheeks rosy with embarrassment.

“Sorry, I just—Anna let me know over breakfast, and I wanted to check on you but I had a few last-minute meetings to take, and…” She bites her lip. “I was worried. I don’t know why Anna didn’t tell me last night; I would have left the ball, I would have _helped_ —”

“Elsa, it’s okay. I’m alright, really. Dr. Hagen gave me all this stuff, and I’m feeling much better after a good night’s sleep.”

“Still. Can I at least…?”

She gestures timidly at his torso; it takes him a second to figure out what she’s asking. “Oh! Uh, yeah, sure.” He untucks his shirt and lifts it to expose the bandaging beneath. Elsa places her hands against the bindings and concentrates until lacy, delicate hoarfrost blossoms under her palm and weaves itself into the linen. It feels absolutely divine; he groans in relief. “Thank you.”

“Of course. It will still melt eventually, but it should last longer than whatever the doctor brought from the cellar.”

“I appreciate it. You haven’t seen Anna around, have you?”

“Not since this morning. She might have gone down to the docks to give a final farewell in person to the last of our visitors. She’s—better at that, than me. The personal touch.”

“That makes two of us,” he shrugs, leaning on their familiar joke. Elsa gives him a tiny smile. “Um, listen. While I have you. Is it—could I ask you a favor?”

“It depends,” she says cautiously, but there’s a warmth in her voice that lets him know she’s open to it.

“Right. Well—I don’t really want to go into details, but my harvesting trip… it went badly. Really badly. Everyone’s okay, thank goodness, but the men I went up to the mountain with—they’re gonna take a big hit, financially. We lost almost everything. And I _know_ them, they’re going to be way too stubborn to come to open petitions and ask you, but I was just wondering, if there’s any way to—”

“I’ll take care of it.”

He blinks. “Wait, what? I didn’t even ask you, yet.”

“No need. Whatever needs to be reimbursed or replaced, it’s done. I’ll get it handled.”

“I didn’t mean _all_ of it, that’s not—I just meant—”

“Kristoff.” She puts a small, nervous hand on his arm. “They brought you home to us. That’s not something I can ever repay; putting up for some equipment is the least I can do.”

He swallows hard around the lump that’s just lodged in his throat. _Home to us._ He’s just—he’s been so _stupid,_ and she’s—

His arms come around her impossibly slight shoulders as he pulls her against his chest in a desperate hug, squeezing her fondly. She looms so large in his mind’s eye; it’s always startling, being reminded of just how small she is. Scarcely taller or broader than Anna.

“I love you, Elsa,” he confesses quietly into her ear. He’s never said that to her before, but suddenly, making sure that she _knows_ feels much, much more important than his need to not make a fool of himself.

He means it. She’s his family.

“I love you too,” she says, squeezing him back. “Whatever you need.”

He frowns. “I don’t—it isn’t about the money, I didn’t mean for it to sound like that, I—”

“I know,” she reassures him. “You don’t have to explain.”

But he does, though. Just maybe not to her. “Okay.”

“Could we maybe—family game night, later?” she asks tentatively, and his heart swells.

“You sure? Not tired out from all that socializing?” he teases. “If I’d had to talk to that many people, I wouldn’t leave my room for a week.”

She laughs. “I think I can power through. For the right people, anyway.”

He finally lets her go. “In that case, it would be my honor.”

* * *

If Anna were ever at the docks, she’s long gone by the time he arrives. He could search the castle for her all over again, he supposes, but the prospect sounds exhausting. She clearly doesn’t want to see him—he should give it a rest and take the hint. It’s probably for the best, anyhow; it gives him more time to get his thoughts in order. He heads to the stables, weighing the pros and cons of practicing his apology speech on Sven. Pros: honest, critical feedback. Cons: honest, critical feedback.

The barn is dark and quiet in the afternoon lull when he enters. Sven in his stall; Kristoff’s mountaineering pack where he left it leaning against the partition.

And Anna, curled up on the bench he made her with dried tear tracks on her cheeks, looking for all the world like her heart’s cracked in two. Devastated.

“I should’ve realized I’d find you here,” he sighs. Forget _her_ forgiveness—if he’s fucked this up, he’ll never forgive himself.

“Oh. Hey,” she sniffles, wiping at her face and sitting up at the sight of him.

“Hey.”

There’s so many things he needs to tell her; he doesn’t know where to start. He should say he’s sorry—he never should have tried to walk away from her, and he especially shouldn’t have tried to do it in secret, only to blow up at her for saying so. He should say thank you—that he’s never felt as understood, as cared for, as he felt last night, and he doesn’t know how she managed to figure him out but he’s so, so grateful that she has. He should say _I love you_ —he hasn’t said it back, the last few times she’s said it to him, and it seems idiotic and unfair in hindsight. He’d just gotten too used to it, that’s all—like saying it would be redundant, as if he were introducing himself by name to his own family. _Hi, I’m Olaf, and I like warm hugs. Hi, I’m Kristoff, and I’m in love with Anna of Arendelle._ But it’s not like that, he never feels like that when she says it to him, and he should have known better. He doesn’t know how they got on such different pages about that, but he can fix it. He will.

But before he can say any of those things—he really should have practiced—she beats him to the punch.

“I just—I—I’m so sorry, Kristoff,” she warbles, and all of the things he’d been trying to say evaporate from his brain.

“What? Why? _I’m_ the one who—you don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

She boggles at him. “What are you talking about?”

“What are _you_ talking about?” He knows them; they could talk in circles like this another ten minutes if he lets them. He sighs; scrubs a hand down his face. Manages, just barely, to stop himself from hissing aloud when his thumb catches the bruise on his cheek. “Hold on.” He walks over to Sven’s stall and opens the paddock, before leading him by the harness towards the back door. “You mind taking a few laps around the riding ring, pal?” he asks, because if Anna hadn’t wanted to risk Sven seeing her naked, he’s pretty sure she doesn’t want him to hear whatever it is they’re about to talk about. Sven gives him a reproachful look before trotting reluctantly out the door, leaving the two of them alone.

Kristoff clears his throat. “Is it okay if I sit with you?”

Tears spring anew to her eyes, making his gut churn with guilt. “Of course it’s okay,” she says, scooching over to make room. She doesn’t leave him space for long; as soon as he’s settled, she slides back over and arranges herself delicately in his lap across his good side, careful not to so much as brush against his bruise. His arms wrap around her; pure instinct.

“Well I know why _I’m_ sorry,” he says, trying to mentally re-weave the apology he’d been crafting earlier, “but I’m a little lost about whatever it is you think you have to apologize for.”

She sobs, once—a sad, hiccupping little thing—and sniffles as she tries to pull herself together.

“Anna…?”

“I was so mad at you,” she breathes, hiding her face in his neck. He can feel her hot tears pooling in the hollow of his throat. “I don’t—I never wanted to be like that when I’m mad at you.”

“Like what?” he asks, frowning, because he’s honestly not exactly sure what she means. She’d been a little short with him last night, a little heated, but her words had been concerned, not cruel. _He_ was the one who’d been a jerk. They hadn’t even had sex. So what’s—?

“I—” She swallows. _“In charge._ ”

Ah. “You weren’t mad at me,” he says, feeling a little less certain about it as soon as he’s said it aloud. But she hadn’t been, had she? She’s not that good of an actress. He’d have noticed. “But I—I know you were freaked out, and upset, and—”

“I was mad at you. I’m _still_ mad at you,” she corrects him, voice terse. “And that’s why I’m so—I can’t believe I let myself—you—”

“Anna—”

“Kristoff, I _hurt_ you,” she wails, more tears falling, and—

Oh.

Oh, shit.

He doesn’t think he’s ever heard her sound so heartbroken, and he has no idea what to say to fix it. “I wanted it. I asked you to,” he whispers helplessly, only now realizing maybe he shouldn’t have. She scoffs—a dark, cynical thing.

“Somehow, saying _I hurt him because he was asking for it_ doesn’t make me feel any less like the bad guy, here.”

“Sweetheart…” He squeezes her tighter as it finally sinks in for him just how different this conversation is going to be from the one he thought they were going to have. If he doesn’t get this right, he suddenly realizes with a stab of fear and dawning horror, it might be the last time he gets to hold her for a while. Forget the same page; they’re not even in the same _book._

He’d better make it count, then.

“Did you… want to hurt me?”

“Yes,” she whispers, and then sucks in a gasp of shock at herself. “I mean, no, of course not, but I just—I don’t know, I—”

“Shh-shh-shhh,” he soothes, running his hands through her hair. “Okay. Did you want to hurt me _because_ you were mad at me?”

“What difference does it make?” she cries, sounding horrified, though he can’t tell which one of them it’s directed at. “I’m awful, it’s awful, it—I’m supposed to _love_ you, not…”

He remembers, in fits and starts, what she’s told him about what Hans said to her, the night she died. _You were so desperate._ Like it excused it; like she’d been asking to be hurt. Like he was doing her a favor, really, ending it the way he did, because someone else might have been so much meaner. Like he didn’t _really_ take any pleasure in it, but well, since she was offering…

Somehow that’s the kind of person Kristoff’s made her feel like. Someone who gets off on doing harm; on taking advantage.

“You do. You do love me, it’s okay,” he says, frustrated at how weak it sounds to his own ears. He doesn’t have the vocabulary for this. Just that—there’s a difference between inflicting pain and inflicting… damage. There _is_ , he’s sure of it, but he doesn’t know how to articulate it to her, how to say she hurt him without hurting him, that she can like hurting him without wanting to hurt him. The words get tangled meaninglessly on his tongue, useless to him.

“You should break up with me,” she mumbles miserably.

He freezes. “What?”

“You were right to go. If you’d left last night like you wanted to, I wouldn’t have hurt you, and you’d be—we’d be—I can’t stop _thinking_ about it, Kristoff. There must be something wrong with me. I liked—I wanted—” She can barely get the words out, she’s crying so hard, now.

He wracks his brain, but all it’s willing to contribute is the unhelpful, repetitive chant of _don’t fuck this up, don’t fuck this up_ without giving him any clues on how to do that. He seizes on the first thing he thinks of. “I should break up with you.”

She sobs. “You _should.”_

“No, I mean—sorry. I was just repeating you. You said—you didn’t—” He licks his chapped lips, treading carefully. “You didn’t say you wanted to break up with me.”

“It doesn’t matter what I want,” she mutters.

“It does to me. _Do_ you want to break up with me?”

“Kristoff—”

“Do you?”

“No. No, never,” she admits, fisting at his shirt as she buries her face deeper in his neck.

“Okay. Do you want us to stop sleeping together?”

She makes another one of those terrible sounds, the self-recriminating jeer. “Not really.”

“Do you—not want to be in charge?”

“I want to know what you want,” she says softly, and he almost laughs. Definitely still in charge, then. He’s not sure she even realizes she’s doing it.

He runs his tongue along the inside of his teeth. “I want you to trust me. Even if I’m asking for something that you think that I shouldn’t want, or—or you shouldn’t want, or whatever. And—” He chokes up, suddenly, as his heart leaps into his throat. “I want to be worthy of that trust. No more running away when things get hard, just like you said.”

“I don’t know how to do that.”

His heart sinks—from his throat back down into his chest, into his feet, through the floor. “How to trust me?”

“How to trust _me._ How to—to trust myself with you, now.”

He doesn’t have a solution for that. Nothing but talking, anyway, but—usually Anna _loves_ talking. “Maybe we could come up with a code word, or something,” he says, feeling the idea out as he speaks. “For when things get too intense. If one of us says it, we have to stop what we’re doing and—I don’t know, take a breather or something. Talk it out.” She doesn’t say anything. “Or… not…?”

“No, it’s a good idea. I just…” She finally picks her head up to look at him; she’s bitten her lip raw. “Would you have used it, last night? If we’d had one?”

He does her the courtesy of taking real time to consider it, even though he already knows his answer. “…Honestly, no. I don’t think so.” The look on her face makes him wonder: “Would you?”

She averts her eyes. “Maybe. Probably. But—early. Before it all started. When you were being all _I don’t need any help from anyone, I’m macho, doctors are for chumps.”_

“I didn’t say that.”

“You basically did.”

“Well, I’m sorry. For scaring you. I was just… being dumb.”

Her eyes are wet again. “I’m sorry for… I don’t know what to call it. For punishing you like that. I was just… being scared.”

“We’ll come up with something,” he promises. “We’ll figure it out.”

She settles back into his arms, and he dares breathe a sigh of relief. It’s not fixed, not even close, but—he’s gotten this far without making it worse, and that’s something. He can keep doing this. He can keep not fucking it up, until it’s stable.

“Will you tell me what happened?” she asks softly. “Please?”

So he does. Halting, uncertain, reluctant, he tells her everything: about the diminished capacity of his body as he worked, and how it had made him feel. About the wolves, and the horses. About the avalanche. About Lars. About the cliff, and how she was what he’d thought of, when he thought it was all over. About the unending snow, and the hunger, and the frustration of being trapped. About every snide, ruthless comment he’d overheard at the party, and how he’d been so strung out and stressed and sleep-deprived that he’d let their cruelty sound like common sense.

“But you have to know—I wouldn’t have made it ‘til morning. Even if you hadn’t found me, even if I’d left—I would have turned right back around. I would have realized what an idiot I was being, even if it took me a second.” He shakes his head in aggravation, frustrated with himself, because somehow they’ve been talking for over an hour, now, and he _still_ hasn’t said it: “Anna, I love you. I wish I was better at it, I really do, but. I love you so much. And I’m sorry.”

“You’re plenty good at it, you just—” She sniffles; bumps her head against his chest in a half-baked, scolding sort of way. “I asked you to tell me. If I was screwing this up, or making you feel badly about yourself, or—”

“But it’s not you. You didn’t do anything, you’re not the problem.”

She makes that noise again—the laugh that isn’t a laugh. “No. Just my life and everything about it.”

“Not everything. Not even most things, really, and—I’ll adjust. I _will,”_ he says, when she gives him an uncertain look. “I will, because you’re worth it.” Her mouth twists in clear disagreement; he sighs.

He wants terribly to kiss her; realizes with a start that they haven’t kissed properly since she jumped into his arms last night, relieved just to see him alive. But the expression on her face makes it clear that she’s not interested or ready, so he kisses her temple instead.

“There is one more thing I haven’t told you,” he admits.

She groans. “Of course. Alright, let’s hear it. Hit me.”

“Elsa wants to do family game night later.”

Anna’s quiet a long moment before she says, in monotone: “Crud.”

* * *

It’s nearing sundown when Anna finally makes it back to her room, which suits her just fine. It means she’s got a whole hour, still, to get her head on straight before she has to go to dinner and act normal; an hour before she has to paint a smile on and play charades with Elsa and Olaf and pretend everything’s fine when she feels like her heart’s been turned inside out.

Her bed still isn’t made.

The covers are disheveled where Kristoff woke up alone; she’d told the maids not to bother coming in, unsure when his examination would be done. Her dress and his nice suit from the night before are in discarded piles on the floor, forgotten; the scarves are still tied onto the posts of her headboard, which is—there’s no _way_ Dr. Hagen missed that. She wants to sink into the floor and die of humiliation.

Suddenly, she can’t _stand_ it. This room, all its evidence piled high of the mistakes she’s made, unchanged from the moment her parents moved Elsa’s bed out over a decade ago. Its childish pink wallpaper, its trinkets and knickknacks, every atom of it wrong and stained and ruined. She feels sick, and sick of herself, and something’s got to give.

She gets to work.

The clothes are easy; she hones in on them immediately as the first wrong thing. She folds and hangs them with a careful consideration she does not feel, years of ingrained habit kicking in and holding her back from chucking them into the fireplace like she suddenly wants to. The bed is next; she strips it down to the bare mattress, tossing all the bedding—sheets, duvet, pillows and all—into a pile on the floor. She stares at the scarves for a long moment, torn. She wants to—to—the fireplace really is just _right there,_ but her vanity is on the way, and she doesn’t trust herself not to stop there, to hide them in the little compartment next to the blindfold like a demented chipmunk storing nuts for winter. But she can’t _leave_ them, and she can’t just put them back, and… Ugh. She’s being ridiculous.

She unties the scarves and balls them up, walking to her closet and stuffing them into the bottom of her left winter boot. It’s nearly April, now; no way she’ll need the boots for months and months. All of that can be Future Anna’s problem. Now what?

Getting caught tearing the wallpaper down feels overdramatic, even for her, so she sets her sights back to the bed. She walks to the foot and grabs with both hands onto the lower right post; gives it a good yank. Nothing. Frowning in thought, she comes around the side and pulls hard on her mattress, trying to budge it. It’s heavy, feather down; straining, she’s able to slide it off the bedstead, leaving her with just a frame and ropes. She yanks again on the post—grinning in ferocious satisfaction at the squeak of wood on wood as it moves. Kicking carpets and discarded sheets out of the way as she goes, she drags the bed all the way to the other side of the room, where Elsa’s used to be.

Better.

She’s sweating, now, chest heaving with exertion, but it feels like she’s finally getting somewhere. It takes a minute, but she’s able to bodily wrestle the mattress back onto the bed and flatten it out once more. Taking several trips to the hall closet, she retrieves an entire new set of linens, and makes the bed with military precision: crisp corners, no shortcuts. There aren’t any more pillows, so she strips the ones she’d tossed to the floor before and puts on new coverlets before setting them artfully on the bed in her favored pattern.

A knock at the door—she stands stock-still.

“Highness? Supper is ready.”

Kai. Just Kai.

She blows her bangs out of her eyes and tries to look as dignified as she can when she opens the door. “Thank you. Would you mind sending Lily and a few of the girls up, while I eat? I, uh. I have some laundry for them.”

Kai leans to the side to look over her shoulder, but she’s gotta hand it to him—if she weren’t attuned to his every micro-expression from years of knowing him, she would have missed the very, very slight widening of his eyes on his otherwise placid face as he catches sight of the absolute mountain of bedding piled in the middle of her floor.

“Of course, ma’am.”

And as she sits through an excruciating dinner and the world’s most agonizing three rounds of family game night (“It was _wolf!_ I can’t believe you didn’t get that.” “Sorry, Olaf…”), that’s what she thinks about. How when she goes back to her room, it will be utterly transformed—an entirely different place for an entirely different person. Someone who isn’t so monstrously selfish; the kind of person Kristoff deserves.

She can do it, if she puts the work in. She’s sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is "the first wrong thing" a sad and twisted reference to "the next right thing?" Why yes, it is! 
> 
> The kids are gonna be okay, y'all. Just give them time. Chapter title is from "Birthday Song" by Ben Lee.


	12. this love is not obedient; it’s got its own agenda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for frank discussion of D/s dynamics and descriptions of wounds that include picked-at scabs.

It’s been a week, and she still hasn’t kissed him. As far as Kristoff can tell, Anna can barely stand to be in the same _room_ as him—she’s skittish and unsettled every time they share space, disappearing quickly whenever they’re left alone together.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, once, when he tries to follow her. “It’s just… the bruise on your cheek. Every time I look at you, it’s like…” He waits patiently, wanting to know—what _is_ it like? What does she see when she looks at him that’s so unbearably awful?—but she doesn’t finish the sentence. Instead, she shakes her head and hurriedly walks away, going back to whatever renovation project she’s got going on in her bedroom. He wouldn’t know; he hasn’t been in there since that night.

And without seeing her, it’s hard to know what, exactly, he should be worrying about. Is she avoiding him because she’s mad at him, or because she’s withdrawing into herself? Anna being alone because she wants to be, or forgets she doesn’t have to be—that’s very different than those days when she decides she doesn’t deserve to be anything else. When the despair comes out of nowhere. And he knows fretting about it won’t change it, but. The uncertainty feels like torture.

Elsa takes him and the other harvesters out to lunch at Hudson’s Hearth. Erik almost cries when she tells them she’ll be recouping all the damages, and though Kristoff watches Lars like a hawk the whole time, he remains a perfect gentleman throughout. He’d think he imagined the whole thing were it not for the way Aleks had kept kicking him under the table, shooting him looks like _Are you seeing this, too?_ every time Lars had smiled or said please.

The outing was unexpectedly great for his mood, so Kristoff does his best to keep himself occupied from then on. He mentally recites more speeches, searches his feelings in a way he never has before in his life so that whenever Anna decides to talk, he’ll be _ready._ He’ll be able to make her understand, because he’ll finally understand himself. And in the meantime, there’s a castle that needs tidying after a week of hosting dozens upon dozens of guests; there’s ice to be sold, now that the weather’s starting to warm up. There’s kids in the schoolhouse to entertain, and word games to play with Olaf, and songs on his lute to practice. He fills his days with conscious effort, determined to give Anna the space she needs to work out how she’s feeling. Because if she thinks that he’ll cave and break up with her even though neither of them want to just because she’s ignoring him, well. She’s got another thing coming.

He just has to be patient.

* * *

She’s not _ignoring_ him.

Or—okay, she is, but she’s not doing it to punish him or give him the cold shoulder. She only needs a little time to get her thoughts in order, that’s all.

It’s just… she feels like some wires have been crossed in her head, and she has to figure out how to un-cross them. Because she’d been appalled, hadn’t she, to see the scratches on his back at the hot spring? She’s certain she had. So all she has to do is rediscover that feeling; associate it once more with the fading marks on Kristoff’s skin, instead of… the other thing.

(The rush she’d felt between her legs when he’d met her gaze—eyes intense and clouded with want as he’d flexed his bound, outstretched arms. The noises he’d made at the feel of her nails, her teeth.)

It’s a laborious process.

It takes running into him completely by accident in order to rattle her out of her newfound routine. She’s in the marketplace shopping for a new rug for her bedroom; a ship came in from Maldonia a few days ago, and the wares have all been exquisite. She’s got it narrowed down to two when she hears his voice—

“Ice! Fresh, clean ice!”

—and she doesn’t really have an explanation for what happens next other than that her brain short-circuits. _Kristoff’s here!,_ it says happily, and then her feet are moving away from the stall towards the middle of the square, and her mouth is saying “Kristoff, hi! Could I borrow you for a sec?”

It’s only when Kristoff and Sven exchange shocked, baffled glances that she remembers that they’re not doing this right now. That it’s weird that she’s standing here, beaming at him, acting like nothing’s wrong.

“…Sure,” Kristoff says anyway, because he’s a good person like that, even when he pretends not to be. He gamely trots after her as she leads him towards the table she was perusing, leaving Sven to guard the ice cart. She shows him the two carpets she’s stuck between.

“The purple is so pretty, but I really like the green, too. What do you think?”

This was a mistake. Asking him is such a mistake. Because now they’re doing it _together,_ picking out decorations for her bedroom, and he’s going to read something into it. She’s _already_ reading something into it; knows that if she picks whichever one Kristoff decides he likes, she’s going to think of him every time she looks at it. It’s going to be the same problem she’d had before all over again. Why doesn’t she ever think before she talks?

The same issue must be on his mind, because he tries to get away with a squeaky, “They’re both nice?”

“I know they’re both nice; that’s why I’m torn,” she laughs, unable to stop herself. Only now does it occur to her that maybe he thinks this is a test; she bites the inside of her cheek in frustration.

He looks down at the table; frowns as he gives the two rugs proper consideration. “The purple,” he decides, after a long moment. “It’s—I dunno. A little more grown up, I guess?”

She sees what he means; he’s not wrong. “Okay,” she says, voice coming out softer and heavier than she means it to. “The purple it is, then.”

Neither of them go anywhere.

He rubs at the back of his neck. “Listen, I’ve been meaning to tell you. I think I might get out of town for a few days? Now that spring’s here, I really should go up and check on my cabin—make sure nothing’s happened to it, at the very least.”

“Oh,” she says, dully. Of course he wants to do that, wants the time alone. What reason has she given him to stick around? “Yeah, okay. Have fun.”

“You could… come with me?”

It’s the sweetness of the offer—the cautious hope in his voice—that does it. Despite all that’s happened, and how she’s treated him, he still wants to share his life with her; to introduce her to the parts of himself she hasn’t yet had the chance to see. How can she possibly turn that down?

“I’ll think about it,” she says, and his smile drops as he clearly takes it as a no.

“Okay. I’d better get back to—I’ll see you,” he says, disappearing back into the crowd. She groans. She was supposed to say yes. It’s such a simple, easy word—how do you screw up _yes?_

“The purple, then?” the trader asks her, and she’d be agitated at the eavesdropping if she were paying any attention whatsoever.

“Sure, definitely,” she mumbles, distracted as she stares after his retreating body. “Could you, uh, re-roll it for me? _Berightbackthanks.”_ And then she’s off and running. “Kristoff! Kristoff, wait!”

He slows down when he hears her voice; it’s only a few seconds before she’s caught up to him. “Yeah?”

“I’ve thought about it. Yes. It’s yes. I want to go with you.”

His face lights up like a gas streetlamp—glowing, friendly, guiding her home in the dark. The bruise on his cheek has mostly faded to yellow, now. She can bear it, if a smile like that is her reward. “You mean it? It’s—we’d be roughing it, a little. Not sure what we’re gonna find.”

Her heart aches at his uncertainty; she did that. “Of course I mean it. When do we leave?”

* * *

She’s not used to there being awkward silences between them.

It’s never been a problem before. Even the weekend they met, they’d bickered constantly as they traveled. Over time, that sniping had softened into good-natured teasing and inside jokes; Elsa had called their banter _the most entertaining show in town._ But now they can scarcely maintain eye contact as he drives them up to the cabin in his wagon, let alone keep up any kind of witty repartee. It’s—really discouraging, honestly.

But she still doesn’t expect him to break the quiet by saying “I’ve been thinking a lot about ice harvesting.”

She feels her face fall; tries to school it into something neutral. “Really? I thought the season was over. But I—I guess if you really want to go, I can’t stop you.”

“Huh?” He frowns at her until he realizes what she’s implying. “Wha—no! I don’t mean I want to go back out there. I’m still recovering; I don’t have a death wish.”

Anna holds her tongue, biting down on an unfair retort.

“I’m more thinking about… we have a system. After we’ve harvested an area, we have to wait for the ice to freeze back over thick enough before we can return to that spot again. That’s one of Erik’s jobs as guild master: he monitors the ice depth. And he does that by using colored flags to let us know where it’s safe to walk. Green means you’re good to go; the ice is stable and can be cut again. Yellow means go slow and use caution—the ice is solid enough to stand on but too thin to pierce safely, so you have to be careful. And red means—”

“—danger, stay away.” Anna finishes, catching on quickly.

“Exactly. So maybe… maybe we could do that. We could tell each other what color we are. So for example, I might say: ‘Anna, I want to talk about what happened the night of the ball.’ And then you’d say…” He looks askance at her, keeping one eye on the path as he drives.

“… Yellow.”

He nods and stays silent, waiting for her to elaborate. She clears her throat and jerks her chin forward, reminding him of the company they’re keeping. He laughs. “Right. Not in front of Sven. Gotcha.”

Sven gives them a look so baldly judgmental Anna can’t blame Kristoff for narrating it: _“You guys are so weird.”_

“Sorry, buddy,” he shrugs in response. “I don’t make the rules. Anna’s in charge.”

He doesn’t mean anything by it, she knows—his voice is light and accepting; happy even—but just like that, the moment’s broken. Tension knots her shoulders; she guiltily scooches further away from him using what little room she has left in the box seat.

Silence falls once more.

* * *

They reach the cabin by late morning. Though she expected only one building, there are actually several structures in the clearing as they approach, all adjacent to a pleasant, bubbling spring: a rough-hewn, unadorned wooden cabin with boarded windows; a large shed of nearly the same size with big barn doors; a squat clay-and-stone dome she now recognizes as an ice house; a water well; and a little shack she can only assume is a privy, which—well, she did volunteer to rough it.

Kristoff hops out to open up the shed, and Sven trots inside. Within, there’s a pen at the back with hay for Sven, tools and equipment spanning the long wall. On the other side, fire wood is stacked in neat rows.

“C’mon,” Kristoff murmurs, grabbing a hammer on his way out, and Anna follows him to the cabin and through the door.

It takes a second for her eyes to adjust in the dim light, but she likes what she sees. The cabin is all one contiguous space on the inside, maybe a little smaller than her bedroom. A wood burning stove with a cooktop takes up the near corner, its wide flue pipe winding upwards and disappearing into the ceiling. There’s a counter built into one wall, with a pitcher pump set into a deep sink under one of the windows. Table, chairs, storage trunks… every piece in the cabin looks to be handmade, including the surprisingly large bed in the far corner. She doesn’t know why she’s surprised—of course he’d build his own bed, he’s huge, he’d want to be comfortable—but somehow, the notion that there’d only be one bed in here and that it would be _his_ hadn’t even occurred to her at all. Ridiculously, she feels herself blush.

It’s all very pretty, in a simple, efficient sort of way, and very Kristoff, and Anna can’t believe she’s never been here before.

(But then, that’s why they fought in the first place, isn’t it? Because she’d just expected him to adapt to her world, when she’s never set foot into his. One day, she thinks—she hopes—this place and all its nooks and crannies will be as familiar to her as any room in the castle. She just has to put in the effort.)

“I, uh. I know it’s not much, but…”

She turns to find Kristoff’s averted his gaze, looking bashful.

“Are you kidding me? This is amazing. Kristoff, you _built_ this. Yourself! With—with your hands!” She uses her own to gesture emphatically at his, like he doesn’t know what hands are.

“Well. My other body parts helped,” he shrugs, but she can tell he’s pleased, doing his best to hide a smile. “I’d better get started.”

She trails after him as he walks back into the sunlight, heading to the boarded windows. “What can I do to help?”

“Huh?”

“I’m not going to sit here like some pampered—” _princess_ “—brat while you do all the work. Gimme a task! I’m—well I’m not good with tools, exactly, but…”

“Okay, feisty, hold on,” he chuckles, and disappears back into the cabin. He reappears a moment later with a thin rope wound around his hand. He tosses it to her casually; she manages, just barely, to catch it without embarrassing herself. “The clothesline hangs between the cabin and the shed. See the hooks, there? If you could get that up for me it would be a big help.”

“You got it, chief,” she says, giving him a jaunty salute, and he rolls his eyes and gets back to the windows.

The task is easy enough, she supposes, only she’s about a foot too short to make it happen—even on her tiptoes, her fingers don’t even come close to brushing the hooks attached to either building. Frowning, she heads to the shed to see if she can find a ladder. She spots one immediately… hung horizontally on the equipment wall, high out of reach, because Kristoff is a giant who likes to torture her.

It’s fine. She has a better idea, anyway.

“Good grief,” Kristoff groans when she emerges astride Sven, now able to reach the clothes hooks with ease.

“Hey. Eyes on your own work, buddy. I don’t criticize _your_ methods,” she sniffs, setting about tying her knots. He snorts, but she can’t find it in her to complain; it feels so _good_ to joke around with him like this. She’s missed it like crazy.

Clothesline set, she returns Sven to his stall and grabs the broom she sees among the tools. She doesn’t want to keep pestering Kristoff for odd jobs, so she delegates them to herself—starting with sweeping out the cabin floors and wiping down the counters. With every board Kristoff removes, the work gets a little easier, natural light spilling into the room and filling it with cozy charm.

She heads to the bed next, checking the blanket for moth holes. It seems intact, but definitely has a musty smell to it; she drags it outside and throws it over the clothesline to air out in the sun. She lets out a cheer of triumph when she manages to get it hooked on the first try—which evolves into a helpless shriek when the whole thing comes collapsing down on her head, giving out under the heavy quilt’s weight.

Kristoff’s laughing at her when she emerges from her fabric prison. “No offense, but your knots are for shit,” he teases, rubbing subconsciously at his wrist.

She goes scarlet and doesn’t talk again for an hour.

* * *

They spend the day that way—trading tasks as they transform the cabin into something habitable again. They’ve brought food with them, but Kristoff opts to grab his bow and quiver to see if he can snag a few rabbits; while he’s gone, Anna chops vegetables and puts water on to boil for stew. It’s… she’s never had this, a day of cooking and cleaning and domestic chores to keep her household running. She can talk herself hoarse telling Kristoff their class differences don’t matter to her, but she can’t make them not _exist;_ she’s never been more acutely aware of her spoiled upbringing in her life.

No wonder he’d been so desperate to get away from it.

He returns with two rabbits already field-dressed, which she’s grateful for. She’s watched Gunnar work enough that’s she’s not too squeamish about such things, but she’s really not a fan of the part where they go from having _fur_ to _no fur,_ just like that. They cook in quiet, but it feels companionable instead of oppressive like before.

Or at least, it _had,_ until…

“If you’re going to break up with me,” Kristoff ventures as they finish the last of their supper, “It’s probably better if you’d just say so, instead of leaving me to guess.”

Anna’s fork clatters loudly onto the plate; she jumps at the sound, not having realized she’d dropped it. “I—what?”

He flushes. “Sorry, I should have—uh, what col—”

“Green. What are you talking about? I told you I didn’t want to break up.”

“And then you disappeared for a week. Anna, I haven’t seen you in days and days. You won’t talk to me. You could barely _look_ at me.”

“I’m here now, aren’t I?” she rasps, chest tightening. She hadn’t meant to make him feel… she’d been trying to protect him. For his own good.

“And I’m glad. But I don’t understand what’s happening here anymore,” he says, gesturing broadly between them to indicate _here_ means _their relationship._ “I tried to give you space because I thought that’s what you wanted, but today, it felt like you didn’t want that at all, and now I don’t…” He sighs. “Those true love mind-reading powers still haven’t kicked in yet. You’re going to have to help me out.”

She can feel her eyes getting misty. _True love_.

She loves him so much it hurts, sometimes: this feeling of wanting to rip open her ragdoll stitching and show him her insides, show him how her heart beats _Kristoff Kristoff Kristoff_ so he’ll never have to doubt again. It’s—it’s not cute, this feeling, it’s not docile or soft. It’s possessive, and ravenous, and it makes her scared of herself in the rare times when it washes over her like this. Scared of the way she wouldn’t mind tearing him apart, just a little, if it meant she got to see his insides, too.

She doesn’t _want_ that. Doesn’t want to want it. Wishes so desperately she could just skip to the next part, where she’s mature about this; that she could let her feelings open up like a bottle of wine, to mellow out the distasteful bite of it and leave only pleasant smoothness remaining.

“Do you remember,” she says, instead of saying any of those things, “what you said, that day I had a total freak out when we went on a picnic?”

“Uh… I remember saying a lot of things, and some of them were pretty obnoxious. Can you be a little more specific?”

She frowns. She doesn’t remember obnoxious. She remembers him being unfailingly, unendurably kind. “You said you didn’t want to hurt me. You said that when I set limits, you knew I was safe with you.” Her mouth twists as she tries desperately to keep it together; if she starts crying now she won’t stop, and they need to have this conversation. “But I don’t—I don’t think I’ve set a limit in a long time. I think I’m pushing them instead, pushing your boundaries, and you’re not—” _Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry._ “Safe. With me.”

“Because you hurt me.”

_“Yes.”_

The floor squeaks as he pushes his chair out; he walks around the table and squats down next to her, taking both her hands in his where they rest in her lap. She could fall into those earnest brown eyes and drown there; she turns away, staring helplessly out the window where his bedspread flaps in the breeze.

“You know what I remember from that day?” he asks, rubbing his thumbs slowly across the backs of her hands.

“What?” She can see him smiling, a little, out of the corner of her eye. She can’t stand it; can’t imagine what he has to smile about.

“I remember you making fun of me because I put my foot in my mouth and said I didn’t mind waiting until marriage. That I was interested in _you,_ not sex with you.”

She swallows. “I remember.”

“It was true then, and it’s true now. I don’t care if we need to slow down until you’re comfortable; I don’t care if we never have sex again, just—don’t leave. Don’t give up on us.”

It’s unfair to say it, she shouldn’t say it, but… if they’re going to have this talk, they should have all of it. So she says what they’re both thinking:

“You did.”

He inhales sharply. “I know, I know I did. I’m sorry. But I’m not—you’re so brave, you’re the bravest person I’ve ever met. It’s different, when it’s you. I guess I… I don’t know what to do when you don’t know what to do. You being scared scares me.”

The first tear falls. She closes her eyes, hoping that if she doesn’t open them again she can keep it to one. “But I _don’t_ know what to do. I can’t always—” She stops. Starts again with a self-deprecating laugh, because this may be the most thoughtlessly privileged thing she’s said yet: “It’s a lot of responsibility, you know. Being in charge.”

“Anna…” He pulls gently on her hands, then; pulls until she gives and slides out of her chair and onto the floor with him. Not in his lap, but at his level. In his space. “It is. I never said it’s not. I’m sorry I—it must be a lot of pressure, huh?”

If she says yes, she’s conceited and selfish; if she says no, it sounds like she doesn’t take him seriously. So she breathes, and squeezes his fingers.

“Could we move this to the bed, maybe?” he asks, when it’s clear she’s not going to answer. “It’s just that it’s more comfortable than the floor. Harvesting’s given me old man knees.”

She opens her eyes to search his face. “Just to talk?”

“Just to talk.”

“Green.”

He gets to his feet with a comically exaggerated groan, then pulls her up, too. They kick off their shoes as they cross the room and climb onto the mattress, then face each other cross-legged, knees brushing.

“I feel like I haven’t been clear,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve thought a lot, this week, about how to explain this to you, so… okay. When I say ‘Anna in charge,’ it doesn’t mean you’re the only one getting your way, or that we only do what you want. I know I have a say, too.”

“But you never said anything.”

“I didn’t speak up,” he agrees mildly. “But it’s not the same as not having a say. Anna, I got _exactly_ what I wanted. I just didn’t ask for it, first, and that—I guess that frightened you. It made you think you were taking it from me. And that part’s my fault; I thought you knew.” He huffs out a laugh. “Guess we’re both still working on the mind-reading thing.”

She allows herself the tiniest smile. “Guess so.”

“So that’s what I hadn’t understood. How it felt, for you. But the way you said it before, I think I get it now—how you can’t be in charge _and_ set the boundaries. That’s way too much, that’s not balanced. Right?” She nods. “So think about it like this: you call the shots, but _I_ set the limits. Red means red. Does that… sound fair?”

“Sort of, but—”

“But that means green means green, too. You have to trust me that I know what I want. And that I’ll let you know if I’m unhappy.”

It sounds like he’s just rolling over and indulging her worst impulses. Letting her get away with it. “But that’s still not balanced. You should get to be in charge, too.”

“But I don’t _want_ to be,” he insists. “I want—argh,” he groans, burying his face in his hands and then peeking at her between his fingers, like he did all those months ago. He’s trying to make her laugh. She’s not quite in the mood, but it doesn’t feel as impossibly out of reach as it has of late. “You’re really gonna make me say it, huh?”

“Please.”

He takes a deep breath. Looks her right in the eyes. “I want you to tell me what to do. I want to do what you want, and I want to do it exactly right. I want you to correct me when I’m not getting it, and I want you to call me handsome when I do. I want to make you feel good. I want to be yours. That’s what I want. That’s what I like. Is that—really so bad? That I like that? That… we’ve liked it, together?” His voice goes sort and uncertain at that last bit, like he’s a suddenly nervous he’s gotten her all wrong.

And Anna doesn’t know how to respond, because her head’s spinning and she’s—he can’t just _say_ things like that when they literally agreed two minutes ago _just to talk,_ because now she’s wet for him and they’re supposed to be having a mature conversation.

She clings to the one bit of seeming sanity she has left; the towering obstacle holding her back: “I still hurt you.”

“You did,” he concedes. “I liked that, too.”

“I don’t—I don’t know how I feel about that.”

“Then we never have to do it again,” he says, like it’s that simple. “You get to say red, too; it goes both ways. I don’t want to push you into something you don’t want any more than you want to push me.”

“No, I…” He’d called her brave, just now, but he’s the only one who’s taken any risks tonight. She tries to find her courage for him. “I liked it, too,” she admits. “I don’t know how to feel about how much I liked it.”

“Okay. That doesn’t change my answer.”

Her heart’s throbbing with it again—that wild, feral wanting. She does what she can to keep it in check, which means reminding herself just as much as him: “I’m still a little mad you tried to leave.”

“Yeah. Join the club. Will you let me make it up to you?”

“I want to, but… what’s going to stop us from having this same fight six months from now? Or in a year, or two? I’m always going to be a princess, Kristoff. That’s not going away.”

“Neither am I,” he promises. His expression is somber and serious. “You’re not the reason I left, Anna. You’re the reason I came back.”

She wants to touch him. She shouldn’t touch him.

“I think I’m ready,” she whispers. “To see.”

He doesn’t need her to explain what she means; he pulls his shirt off without fanfare. His torso is bound with bandages, hiding the worst of it—that continent of a bruise on his side—but there’s still plenty to take in. Time hasn’t faded her memory one iota; despite her concern in the moment that they’d blend together, she knows _exactly_ which bruises are the ones he’d arrived at the castle with, and which are the ones she’d given him. It would be hard, she supposes, not to recognize the studded arcs of your own bite plane on someone else’s body. Purple and yellow like crocuses. Like the Arendelle flag—marking her conquest.

The scratches have all healed and faded, but she hadn’t expected them to stay. The wolf bite is a different story, more gruesome in some places than others. Though the shallower points have already faded to scars, she can tell he’s been picking at his scabs—the larger ones are congealed over, dark and fresh; the smaller ones pulled off to reveal the bright, raw pink of new skin.

“Kristoff…” She doesn’t know what to say.

“Can—can I see you, too? Please?”

She bites her lip. She’s been wearing high-collared blouses ever since that night, desperate to hide the evidence of what she’d made him do. Ugly marks for ugly thoughts; nothing she’d be proud to display to the world. But she can’t think of a good reason to deny him this, so she reaches up and undoes the buttons at the back of her neck, pulling the fabric down to reveal the still-mottled skin of her throat and chest.

His breath catches; there’s no mistaking the way his eyes darken with desire.

“Wow.”

“Stop,” she grumbles, moving to cover back up. He reaches out to still her hand, but—“Red,” she snaps without thinking, and he pulls back like she’s burned him.

“Sorry,” they say in unison. Him alarmed, her guilty.

“…Sorry,” she repeats, gentler this time as she redoes her buttons. He puts his own shirt back on in a somewhat silly but not unwelcome show of solidarity.

“It’s okay. I just—why don’t you want me to look?”

“It’s—it’s gross. And stupid. And embarrassing. I shouldn’t need—”

“ _I_ needed,” he insists, firmly. “I _needed_ you, Anna, and you... you were right there, holding on. I was so lost in my own head, and you pulled me out.”

“I did?” Her voice comes out impossibly small; it’s hard to dare believe him when he’s telling her exactly what she most wants to hear.

 _“Yes._ And the fact that you wanted it just as much—it’s like you said. I’m yours, but you’re mine, too. It’s not—you don’t _own_ me. We belong to each other. It mattered to me, that you wanted to show it.” The unsaid implication rings loud and clear to her: that his feelings are a little hurt, maybe, that she’s been hiding it ever since.

“Okay, but. I still don’t know why you wanted it in the first place. Any of it. The pain or the orders or the scarves or the not letting you talk. It’s just me being a tyrant, going on a power trip and—”

“Hey, hey, hey. Anna, no. That’s not it at all. It’s…” He rubs at the back of his neck. “I should have practiced this part more. This is gonna sound stupid.”

Her heart lurches. _I’ve thought a lot this week about how to explain this to you. I should have practiced this more._ All this time she’s been wasting her effort trying to erect a wall between them, and he’s been spending it building a bridge instead. Waiting for her to reach out from the other side and connect them.

“I sound stupid all the time,” she jokes weakly. “Try me.”

“It was like… like I was still on the mountain and I couldn’t get home. I tried so hard to tune out what I was feeling when I was up there—all those injuries, all that fear—so I was still trapped inside it. And you found a way to let me out. I knew I’d be okay, because this time, you were there. _You_ had me, right where you wanted me, and that—was safe? Because it was on my terms. I didn’t have to be scared, because I knew you’d never let anything bad happen to me.”

“But I _was_ the bad thing that happened to you,” she counters.

“No way. You were my anchor. You were able to show me what was real, in a way I couldn’t argue with or talk myself out of. You keep saying you hurt me, but pain… doesn’t always hurt? Sorry, I told you it would sound stupid.”

The room is quiet as his words sink in; outside, she can hear the chirp of crickets. The promise of a mild spring evening. “…I really made you feel like that?”

That’s what she’d wanted; _all_ she’d wanted. Exactly what her instincts had told her. She tries to breathe through it and let herself believe him, that _too good to be true_ is just _true,_ full stop.

He bumps their knees on purpose. “You always make me feel like that.”

She feels—she feels like one of Robin Hood’s merry men. Like she’s just pulled off the biggest heist of her life, only what looked to all the world like a crime was benevolent and just all along. Like she’s gotten away with a precious fortune. Self-satisfied, clever, naughty, righteous—the emotions swirl within her, loudly doing everything they can to drown out her regret and trepidation.

She might let them.

“I think I’m going to change into pajamas,” she murmurs. “Would you mind, um…?” She nudges her chin towards the door; he pops up immediately.

“Sure. I’d better check on Sven one more time, anyway. Grab the blanket.”

Once he’s gone, she goes to her valise to grab a nightgown. She’s brought—well, more options than she needs, probably, she definitely over-packed—but. Aha! Among her more conservative choices, she’s brought one with a scoop neck. Hardly anything salacious—it doesn’t even show her collarbones, let alone cleavage or something—but it’s more than sufficient to show off some of the fading hickeys he’d left her.

She doesn’t mind so much, now, if he sees.

He returns with the quilt bundled in his arms; walks past her and spreads it out over the bed with single-minded focus. Not ignoring her, exactly, but… giving her room, maybe. Letting her warm up to his being here.

And when he turns around, he pointedly meets her eyes, and his gaze does not drift further down.

“I have to put on the arnica,” he says, delivering it like bad news. Like _the crops didn’t make it,_ or _we’re going to have to operate._ “I understand if you, uh. Want to be somewhere else for that.”

“No, I—let me help you. If… that’s okay?”

“I’d like that,” he says, and his shirt comes off once more. Together, they unwind the wrapping around his torso, trading hand over hand until his ribs are bare. The main bruise, the scary one, is less dark now, more red—a bold, violent watercolor in merlot and burgundy. She sucks in a breath at the sight of it.

“Doesn’t it hurt, like, all the time?”

“I guess? I’m mostly used to it. The ice helps.”

She frowns. “But you didn’t ice it at all, today.”

“No, I did. Before we left, Elsa gave me a little—” He flicks his wrist and wiggles his fingers. “Lasted all afternoon.”

Anna feels a smile flicker onto her face. “She’s a keeper, that one.”

They go quiet, after that, working efficiently to get everything covered in salve. Touching only when their hands occasionally brush reaching into the jar at the same time. Well, outside the obvious, that is—Anna’s fingertips retracing the same paths they took that night, pressing into the most vulnerable parts of him. Only this time, she’s being as cautious and gentle as she knows how to be; her touch tentative and tender. They do the large one last, double-teaming it so it’s over and done with as quickly as possible.

“Alright, Mummy Boy, let’s get you wrapped back up,” she says when they’re finished.

He snorts, handing her one end of the bandage. They start twisting it around his body. “Mummy Boy?”

“You heard me. What’s wrong with Mummy Boy?”

“I can think of sexier nicknames, is all.”

“Oh yeah?” she asks, innocently. “Like what, handsome?”

His hands freeze in midair, holding the bandage awkwardly at an angle. He stares at her, wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

 _Ask me_. _I’ll say yes if you ask me._

“Anna... may I kiss y—?”

Or maybe she’s too impatient to say yes, she thinks, as she swallows down the end of the question. Kristoff makes a soft noise, surprised and pleased, and she sinks into his kiss hungrily. Gratefully.

(Going to bed is, admittedly, a production—after much negotiation, they agree it’s probably safe for him to hold her so long as she’s the little spoon and he lays on his good side. But the blanket smells like fresh air and spring flowers, and Kristoff’s breathing is strong and steady in her ear, and Anna falls asleep more easily than she has in a month and a half.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inch by inch, y'all!
> 
> Chapter title from "The Debt Collectors" by Ben Lee. As ever, if you have the urge to do so I enthusiastically encourage that you drop me a line-- I live for hearing from you guys.


	13. been lost without the things I love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day! Have a whole bunch of smut to celebrate!! (Content warning for D/s dynamics and bondage play)
> 
> And on that note, two things-- 
> 
> 1) As ever, I advise you strongly to not take sex advice from fanfiction, especially concerning Risk Aware Consensual Kink (RACK). If something here appeals, that's fantastic, and I'm very glad! It's part of why I wrote it. But always do your own research--AO3 should be your first stop, not your last. Have fun and stay safe out there 😉❤️
> 
> 2) If something in here _doesn't_ appeal (or if it's explicitly mentioned that, on the other hand, something that does appeal to you doesn't appeal to this version of Anna and Kristoff), that's fine too! What works for some folks won't work for others, and every relationship and dynamic is different. There's no such thing as a universal turn-on, one person's yuck is another person's yum, &c. 
> 
> Okay that's quite enough blathering from me TIME FOR THE VALENTINE'S DAY QUALITY TIME:

Searing sunlight scorches the backs of Anna’s eyelids. She groans and rolls over, trying to hide from the ambient radiance.

“Too bright,” she whimpers. “C’mon, Gerda, no fair. Close the blinds.”

“That might be a bit tricky,” Kristoff says, “seeing as she’s miles away, and I don’t have blinds.”

Several things occur to Anna all at once.

The first, of course, it that she’s in Kristoff’s bed, in his cabin. That they’re alone together, properly alone, for the first time since—gosh. The hot spring? Way too long.

The second is that the crushing feeling of remorse she’s been carrying ever since she untied those scarves seems to have finally, finally lifted. There’s no reflexive instinct to clean or fix or fiddle; no temptation to withdraw. She’s just—well, tired, mostly, and cranky, but. Fine. She’s fine. Good, even.

The third is that it’s _sunrise._ She’s waking up at _sunrise,_ because for some ungodly reason, Kristoff has never put up curtains in his home with eastern-facing windows. Why doesn’t he have curtains? She’s going to have to get him curtains. No wonder he’s a morning person; his cabin wouldn’t let him be anything else.

They have so many things they need to talk about, but she can’t really get past that first, overarching thought: _“Early._ ” She shuffles sideways, intent on burying her face in his shoulder, only to find the other side of the bed empty. Which is—unacceptable.

“I know,” he says, not without sympathy, and that’s when she realizes the fourth thing, which is that he’s all the way on the other side of the room, doing heaven knows what. “You can go back to sleep, if you want to.”

She _does_ want to, but—it’s so freaking bright. “How?” she whines.

“Hmm. I don’t suppose you brought that blindfold, did you?”

He says it in a carefully bland tone, but her eyes shoot open all the same. “What?”

“It’s just a question. I’m problem-solving.”

Later. Well, the answer is _no,_ she didn’t, but that’s still a thought for later. When her brain is working. After caffeine. Did they bring caffeine?

“What are you even up for? This isn’t a farm. You don’t have—chickens.” (It’s possible she has no idea what goes into the day-to-day maintenance of a house like this.) “I refuse to believe you have chores you actually need to do at this hour.”

“I’m checking to see if any more animals got in,” he explains mildly.

She frowns. “You’re only doing that now? Shouldn’t that have been a yesterday job?” Wait. _“More?”_

He chuckles ruefully where he’s kneeling by a cedar chest and raises his hand; he’s holding a fistful of nuts and seeds. “I was looking for a shirt to wear and discovered that some ambitious little nuisance decided my trunk would be a great place to stash his food for the winter.”

That’s—adorable, actually. “Awww!”

“No, not ‘aww.’ _Arrrgh._ I don’t know how he got in; who knows what else we’ll find?”

Anna sits up and clutches the blanket tight to her chest, like a squirrel is suddenly going to jump down from the rafters and attack her. “You think it’s still in here?”

“Probably not, but I’ll bet anything we find two more stockpiles before breakfast.”

They find three—one in the toe of a pair of too-small shoes Kristoff had left behind; one in the cabinet below the built-in sink; one at the bottom of a leather knapsack. Well, she says _bottom;_ once he picks it up to survey the damage, it’s clear it’s been so chewed-through it doesn’t really have a bottom anymore.

“Pestilent little motherf—” Kristoff grumbles, relieved when they discover the small hole in the eaves that must have let his unwelcome guest in. Anna swallows a smile so as not to accidentally worsen his bad mood by letting on how charmed she is by it. She’s not laughing at him, it’s just—he’s cute when he’s mad at woodland creatures, that’s all. “What’s so funny?” he asks, stooping to grab one of the planks he’d used on the windows to seal the hole.

Whoops. Not sneaky enough. “Nothing.”

“You may think the idea of fuzzy visitors is cute now, but don’t come crying to me when a momma badger has picked one of your fancy skirts as a nest for her babies and wants to fight you for it,” he warns, hammering the board in place.

“No, it’s not cute at all. I feel very—safe, with you,” she says, meaning it sincerely even as a wicked little grin paints itself across her face. “I know you’d protect me. From the badgers.”

He rolls his eyes, but it’s the fond eye-roll, not the annoyed one. “I suppose I would,” he begrudgingly allows.

“Well, now that I’m up,” she says, stifling a yawn, “I s’pose we might as well get a start on the day. What’s on the to-do list? Fishing? Firewood chopping? Fuh… something else with F I can’t think of because it’s sunr—? _Never mind,_ ” she sputters quickly, not realizing the lewd joke she’d walked into until she’s already halfway to the punchline. She blushes.

He laughs a little, then looks away. “I guess it depends on how long I’m staying up here.”

That sounds dangerously close to a serious conversation. Which—she’s game for that, she _is,_ but she’d still be worn out from last night’s even if it weren’t just after the crack of dawn. Better to work up to it, surely.

“…but we’re not doing anything on an empty stomach,” he amends at the expression on her face. She breathes a sigh of relief. “Any requests for breakfast? Your choices, I should mention, are oatmeal or, uh. Oatmeal.”

“Darn. No porridge? Or gruel?”

“I can probably make gruel happen, if Her Highness demands.”

“Only your finest gruel, of course.”

“Of course.”

They grin at each other, stupidly, for probably an embarrassingly long moment before they realize they have better things to do than gaze into each other’s eyes.

Whatever. She’s missed his eyes. She has a right to them, doesn’t she?

While Kristoff cooks and puts on tea, she visits the necessary and then swings by the ice house. It’s surprisingly cold when she opens the door, though she doesn’t know _why_ she’s surprised—of course it traps the cold in, that’s the whole point of it. There’s a small array of tools toward the front, and she uses an ice pick to chip off a few decent-sized shards from the nearest block and carries them back to the cabin in the bunched-up front of her nightgown.

“What’ve you got there?” he asks, back to her as he minds the stove.

“Oh, you know,” she sing-songs, grabbing an extra handkerchief from her valise and wrapping the ice in it. “A baby badger. It was just so _cute_ all alone, and—” The look on his face is priceless; she bursts out laughing. “It’s just ice, you goof. Remember? Doctor’s orders?”

He gives her a five minute lecture on how being in the woods is Serious Business and he needs to know she’s Taking It Seriously, but it doesn’t stop him from letting her lean gently against his back, hands holding the ice to his injured side as he cooks.

* * *

“You planning on getting dressed today, lazy bones?” he asks after breakfast, and she blinks; she’d kind of forgotten she’s still only in her nightgown.

“Should I?” she asks, and—she hadn’t meant it to come out as suggestive as it does. What is _with_ her this morning? She rolls her eyes at herself and tries again: “Are we doing Very Serious Wood Tasks?” she jokes instead, but—nope, that’s not better at all. That’s worse.

Thankfully, he just gives her a warm, amused look. “Well, there is one wilderness survival skill I’ve been meaning to teach you. For responsibility’s sake.”

“I’m listening.”

“Your knots really are for shit. And I, uh.” His ears are turning pink. “I happen to be pretty good with rope.”

She’s not sure how she’s been awake for over an hour and only just realized she’s been acting like a horny teenager because she, in fact, _is_ a horny teenager. It’s been over a month, now, since they last actually—of _course_ she—jeez. She feels like an idiot.

“Dressed,” she blurts out, even though they’ve already left that part of the conversation behind. “Definitely going to get dressed. Now. I’ll—meet you outside?” It’s probably ridiculous to do this outside, seeing as the table and chairs are in the cabin, but. The _bed_ is in the cabin.

He smirks, just enough that she’s certain he’s goading her on purpose. “Sure.”

And if she gives him a bit of a show while she puts her clothes on, well. It’s not her fault he doesn’t have curtains.

* * *

“And then I—like this?”

“Yeah, exactly,” he says, voice gruff and low in her ear. “Just like that.”

Knot-making, it turns out, is absolute torture.

Not the task itself—Anna finds she takes to it quickly, enjoying the logical, methodic nature of it; the simple pleasure of working with her hands. She knows the difference, now, between a hitch and a lash; knows how to securely add bends and loops, for her various knot needs. Knows how to make knots that will slip and how to make ones that won’t. Knows some knots work better with thin rope and others with thick ones.

She also knows Kristoff is hard, and has been hard for a good long while. She knows they’re both pretending they don’t notice.

What she doesn’t know—what’s torture to wonder—is why they’re both pretending that instead of doing something about it.

(Only she does know, doesn’t she? She knows _very well_ , after everything, that he wants her to be the one to initiate. And she’s painfully aware of how nervous she is to touch him, even following their talk. Which leaves them… between a rock and a hard place, so to speak.)

“Anna? You with me?” he asks, and she startles; she’d totally spaced out on him.

“Yes. Sorry. It’s only… I’m just a little afraid to—if I touch—what if I hurt you?” she stammers, picking up in the middle of a conversation they decidedly hadn’t been having.

Apparently they’re not quite as in sync as she’d hoped they were, because he quirks his head and asks, baffled, “With the knot? That’s why we’re practicing.”

“No, I mean—” She can’t help the way her eyes flicker down to his crotch. “Kristoff.”

“Oh.” The hunger in his gaze increases exponentially, like… like maybe he’d thought she hadn’t noticed, before. Like he’s been holding himself back, not wanting even the facts of his body to pressure her.

She doesn’t mind the pressure. It’s just… “I don’t want to hurt you,” she repeats.

She expects him to complain, or at least get a little frustrated or snippy with her. How many times do they have to go over this, after all? She wouldn’t blame him.

Which is why she’s taken aback when instead he deflates completely and says, in a tiny, defeated voice, “But we talked about it.”

Her chest constricts. “No, we did! I know, I’m sorry. I don’t mean _hurt you,_ hurt you, I mean—I don’t want to _exacerbate your injuries._ Right now, today,” she clarifies, and he opens his mouth to argue and then closes it again. His shoulders sag.

“I… yeah. That makes sense.”

And that could be the end of the whole thing, she knows. Now that they’ve addressed the elephant in the room, he’d let it go, and keep teaching her about knots, and be fine with it. But _she’s_ not fine with it. She doesn’t want that for him; doesn’t want to see him ignore his own needs like that. She wants to see—to see him—to _watch—_

Oh. That’s a thought.

“But on the other hand,” she says, letting a low purr into her tone as she drops the piece of rope she’s been working with, “it would be a shame to waste all this privacy.”

He blinks up at her through his bangs, hesitant. “It—would?”

“It would. So I guess it’s a good thing we both know _I_ don’t have to touch you at all. Do I, handsome?”

The outline of him gets even more stark as he strains against the seam of his pants—just at that, at the sound of her voice alone. His eyes flutter shut. “No,” he agrees hoarsely, hand drifting downward. “You don’t.”

It’s almost absurd, how easy this feels. As natural as slipping on a favorite sweater: a comfortable, perfect fit. “Give me your color, Kristoff.”

“Green.”

“Okay. How do you usually… where’s most comfortable for you?”

“Um. What?” he asks, sounding distracted. It’s understandable, given the way he’s palming himself through the tented fabric of his trousers; in his shoes she’d probably be distracted, too. But she needs his attention.

“Hey. Did I say you could start?” she asks, purposefully letting the slightest amount of heat into her voice, and his hand flies away as his eyes snap to hers. Better.

“No, Anna. Sorry.”

“No sorry, just—there are bugs out here. And badgers.” He snorts; she grins at him. “Let’s go back inside, huh?”

It’s pretty comical, how quickly he scrambles for the cabin at that. She follows right after, joy and arousal rising in equal measure.

“Where do you want to be?” she asks as she closes the door behind them. Guys usually stand for this, right? Is that comfortable? She feels like she should probably know these things.

“Wherever you want me,” he breathes in response.

Fuck if that doesn’t pulse right between her legs. Wow.

She wants to kiss that smitten, dazed look right off his face, but that would be touching him, and touching him, she’s already announced, is against the rules. So that’s a no go. They’re _her_ rules, of course, but changing them on him so quickly feels like it’s probably a breach of… etiquette? Such as it is.

“Okay, I’m… hold on,” she murmurs, stepping out of her shoes and heading toward the bed. She slides onto it and turns around so she’s sitting up with her back against the headboard, braced by pillows. “Alright, c’mere. Leg up; let me get a good look at you.”

He walks over and gets one knee up on the mattress, rolling his hips forward so she can properly enjoy the sight of his bulge as requested. His hand hovers, eager, by his waistband, but—“Not yet,” she cautions, and it falls again. It’s meant to tease him, but she’s probably doing a better job teasing herself: the promise of it, the size and shape of it. She could eat him alive. _(Another time,_ she promises herself.)

“Okay, you can touch. Over the pants only, please.”

The wanting, needy noise he makes when he cups himself shoots right to her clit—like he’s touching both of them, like he’s touching her, too. The feeling refuses to be ignored; she presses her fingertips impatiently between her legs and keeps her eyes on him. She has more interesting things to pay attention to: the way the fabric of his pants bunches and contours around him; the play of proportions between his hand and what lies beneath, strong fingers squeezing and kneading.

“How does it feel?” she whispers.

He groans. “Good.” She raises an eyebrow, prompting and unimpressed. He swallows and searches for words. “I—like it. You watching me. Makes me feel, um.” He blushes, unexpectedly sweet in an otherwise heated moment. “Handsome.”

“You are handsome.”

He gives himself a proper tug through the fabric; with a hiss, admits, “Didn’t always feel like that. Lars says—mm—I have a face like a hatchet job.”

“Okay, new rule: this isn’t a zone where we’re going to be thinking about anything Lars says.”

“Happily,” he agrees, eyes drifting shut.

“What else do you like?” she can’t help but ask, watching him work himself over. She feels greedy for it; for every thought he’s ever had.

“I like… taking our time. S’not like your books, where everyone’s always in some big rush.” He frowns, then. “That always drove me nuts, actually, when that ranch hand would want the lady shirtless so bad he’d rip her blouse off without undoing the buttons. I’d never do that; you have nice shirts. And that stuff adds up—what is he, made of money? He’s a _ranch hand.”_

It’s such a ridiculously Kristoff thing to say that she can’t help it; she bursts out laughing. She’d forgotten all about the dressage champion and the ranch hand. “Reattaching buttons isn’t expensive.”

“Only if they pop off at the seams. What if he’d torn the fabric? And then you have to crawl around on the floor, looking for them…”

“Okay, pants off. We’re losing the vibe, here,” she giggles. The way he grins at her makes her suspect he’d gotten them off-topic on purpose, but then he’s tugging his trousers and drawers down over his hips in one fluid motion, and she forgets whatever it was she was thinking about.

It’s just—she really, really likes his cock.

Is all.

“Anna?” he asks, and she blinks up at him, addled.

“Huh?”

“Can I…?”

“Oh! Yes. You can touch.”

He sighs in relief as he takes himself in hand, and Anna can barely bring herself to blink, let alone look away. The cabin might be burning down all around her, and she wouldn’t notice. Her whole world shrinks to the pump of Kristoff’s fist across his reddening length; the way he swipes his thumb over his slit to gather the precome beading there, until he’s slick with it. She’s obsessed with the artlessness of his movements—how it’s clearly never occurred to him to perform for her, to get slow or showy when he wouldn’t normally. This is just… him. What he’s like. What he likes.

“I love you,” she breathes, and once she’s broken the seal, she can’t stop: “I love watching you like this, how focused you get. How you take me seriously. You’re so good; bet you feel so good, being good for me. Letting me see you. You’re gorgeous. You’re—I could look at you all day. But it’s not going to take all day, is it?” He shakes his head, hand jacking faster. “You’re close.” A frantic nod. The muscles in his neck stand out in sharp relief, like every inch of him is tense with the effort of holding back.

Anna spreads her knees to get a better angle on herself, enjoying the view, and—wait. Somehow her hand has wound down beneath her skirt, then up and under the waistband of her bloomers, teasing her entrance. When did that happen? She hitches her hips, slipping a single finger inside lazily. She has more important things to worry about.

“Anna,” he moans, voice strangled, and… there’s that, too. Him watching her. Watching her watch him and like it. “Tell me—could you—?”

“You want to know how wet I am for you?” she pants, aiming for a casual laugh but finding herself a little too breathless to get there. “Soaked, Kristoff. I want you so much. Everything about you; all of it. Every single thing turns me on. You did that. You did this to me. You didn’t even have to touch me, and you did this to me. Just like I’m doing that to you.”

“I’m—I—”

“Let it happen. It’s okay. Let me see you.”

He slumps forward as he comes into his hand with a curse, hips stuttering so hard he nearly loses his balance. He does a hilarious twisting motion to stop himself from bracing his weight on the bed with his filthy palm, then staggers with a muttered “sorry, hold on” over to the sink to wash his hand off at the pump. His pants are still slung around his thighs; Anna strokes herself aimlessly and enjoys the view of his ass while she can.

When his hands are clean, Kristoff hitches his trousers back up to his waist—pity—and turns around where he is, sliding down against the counter until he’s sitting on the floor. Watching her from all the way across the room.

“Wow,” he says. “That was—wow.”

“Good wow?”

“You know it was,” he chastises, but there’s no bite in it. His eyes are twinkling, warm and golden as honey.

“It’s just that you’re staying awfully far away, for a good wow.”

“I’m trying to follow the rules,” he huffs. “I’m not supposed to touch you.”

“Well,” Anna drawls, swirling a finger around her clit, “technically, I said _I’m_ not supposed to touch _you.”_

His head shoots up, gaze going sharp and hungry. “Anna.”

“Hmm?”

“Don’t—you can’t just—please. Can I?”

She grins at him, wide and sure. “Green,” she says, and he’s up and across the room in a flash, grabbing her by the ankles and yanking her toward the end of the bed. She shrieks and giggles. “Kristoff!”

“Sorry, so sorry, but these are in my way,” he says, reaching under her skirt and pulling down her bloomers.

She props herself up on her elbows to watch him. As he kneels down at the foot of the bed, the light hits his face just so, and she can’t help it. She gasps, and reaches out, cradling his face in her palm.

“Anna, what…?” he asks, then goes quiet when she runs her thumb gently over the yellow shadow of the faded bruise on his cheek—nearly imperceptible, now, unless you’re really looking for it.

A part of her might always be looking for it.

“I’m alright,” he says, tilting his head to brush a kiss against the pad of her thumb. It’s a ridiculous gesture, thoughtless and romantic; she can’t remember him doing anything like that before. She doesn’t understand how he manages it—how he’s still finding ways to make her melt, seemingly without trying. “I promise your thighs are not strong enough to re-injure my face.”

“You don’t know that,” she pouts, and he purses his lips like he’s trying very hard not to smile or laugh at her. He schools his expression, comically serious:

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he says, then runs those hands of his up and down her bare legs. “Let me show you how much. Let me make you feel good.”

“Okay,” she whispers, and loses track of how many times he does.

* * *

Anna drifts, supine and pleasure-drunk on Kristoff’s bed. She feels—deliciously wrung-out, warm and dozy and buzzing with endorphins. Her muscles might as well be molten lead, for all that she can move them; her body presses heavily into the mattress, stretched like a cat in the sun. She’s certain she’d been dressed, at some point—she definitely remembers that happening—but she’s not, anymore. Kristoff’s homespun sheets are rough against her skin, impossible to confuse with the high thread count bedding of the castle, and she luxuriates in the sensation.

The bed shifts with his weight; she feels him run a hand through the tangled hair at her temple. “I’ll be back in a bit,” he says, voice pitched low like he thinks she might already be sleeping. “Get some rest.”

“No, stay. I’m up, m’not asleep,” she informs him, nuzzling into his palm. The assertion is somewhat mitigated by the way it’s delivered in a lazy slur, syllables eliding into each other. She’s just resting her eyes for a second, that’s all.

“You could nap, though,” he says, knuckle of his opposite hand tracing down her forehead—that familiar, soothing gesture that feels like a railway switch for her brain. “Seeing as I got you up early, and all. I don’t mind.”

 _“I_ mind.” She scrunches her nose in a feeble attempt to make him stop. “Don’t wanna nap. Wanna be with you.”

“I’ll be here when you wake up,” he murmurs, and then he starts singing softly—a sultry little number about all the things he’s loved and missed about her body. She’d enjoy it immensely, she’s sure, except the lyrics are slipping through her mind like water in a sieve, and she sinks, reluctantly, into slumber.

* * *

Kristoff doesn’t go far. He sets up a few snares in the woods around the cabin, and takes Sven out for some exercise. He double-checks the exterior walls to be sure there aren’t any other chewed-through holes he’s missed. He finds his whetstone and sharpens all the tools in the shed that haven’t been used since last year.

His mind, however, never really leaves his bed.

She’s still asleep when he walks back in an hour later, and… he doesn’t hate it, is all. Coming back from his chores to find Anna sprawled out naked between his sheets—hair askew, mouth wide open. Snoring like the roar of a waterfall. Even conked out, Anna is more interesting and entertaining than anyone else he’s ever met.

But she’ll be pissed at him, he knows, if he lets her sleep the day away.

“Anna,” he intones, her name going soft and musical as it leaves his lips. He toes off his boots and crawls up the bed, trailing a series of mellow kisses onto her skin as he goes. “Hey. Wake up.”

She comes to consciousness slowly, stirring beneath him and making high-pitched noises as she stretches. “Mm. I fell asleep.”

He kisses her jaw. “Yeah.”

It’s easy to tell the exact moment she remembers to be annoyed with him—her eyes narrow adorably. “You _made_ me fall asleep,” she accuses.

“Did I?”

“Yes! You—you wore me out with orgasms and then you pulled Mama’s trick on me when I was vulnerable. I was just an innocent bystander.”

He clucks his tongue. “How can you stand to date such a monster?”

“It was _rude.”_

“Maybe I need to be punished.”

She freezes, all that pleasant laziness seeping right out of her. “Don’t joke about that.”

“Who’s joking?” he asks, trying to keep the mood light, but it’s clear this is still a sore spot, for her.

“No, that’s—red,” she says, sitting up and shaking her head insistently. “Hard limit. I mean it, Kristoff. You’re not a convict or a pet. If I don’t like something you do, we’ll talk about it—maybe even fight about it—but we’ll do it like equals. I don’t want to have power over you like that.”

“I hear you,” he promises. “I heard you the first time—you don’t want to be in charge when you’re mad. I get that. But… you’re not _really_ mad about me letting you sleep, are you? Like, actually?”

She frowns. “No, of course not.”

“Right. You’re just giving me a hard time because you think I’m cute when I’m grumpy, or whatever. It’s just teasing.”

“You want me to give you a hard time to make you grumpy… in bed?” she interprets dubiously, and he snorts.

“Well it doesn’t sound sexy at all when you put it like that,” he concedes, and she makes this face like _no, it doesn’t._ “Think of it more like… you know I don’t like it when things are just handed to me. It makes me uncomfortable; I like to work for the things I have. To—earn them.” She nods; so far, so good. “This is no different. It feels, uh… good, for me, when you make me work for it a little. That’s all. I know you’ll still take care of me, but maybe not at the exact first minute I want you to. Not without me putting in the effort.”

She chews on her lip, thinking about it. “So like—delayed gratification? Like. Chocolate cake tastes better after dinner if you didn’t already have it for breakfast.”

Of course _that’s_ Anna’s definition of ‘delayed gratification;’ he swallows down a laugh. “Sure, exactly. I’m not asking you to scare me or harm me. I’m not asking you to make me feel bad at all. It’s—satisfying. Just a different kind of satisfying.”

“Or like a release,” she murmurs, eyes far away. “Like after the mountain. It wasn’t me you were mad at, but I could help you… work through how upset you felt.”

His chest floods with relieved warmth—she gets it, she gets it. _“Yes.”_

“And… it goes both ways, right?” she asks tentatively, attention flickering back to his face. “When you’re good, I can reward you?”

 _For the love of—_ okay. That was. His pants didn’t feel so tight a few seconds ago. “Please do,” he croaks.

He can see the calculus going on behind her eyes. The way she’s weighing what she wants against what she thinks she _should_ want; what he’d like against what she thinks is good for him.

“Alright,” she says, after a long moment. “Strip.”

He blinks. “What?”

“You’re dressed and I’m not. That doesn’t seem very balanced, does it? Strip, please,” she says, scooching off the bed and looking around for something. He starts undoing his shirt buttons.

“What are you looking for?”

“My nightgown; I think I—oh, actually, this will work fine,” she says, and the second he’s gotten his shirt shrugged off she’s grabbed it for herself and pulled it over her shoulders. “I just have to step out for a second.”

“You don’t need to get dressed to do that,” he points out, slipping off his trousers. “There’s no one around.”

“I don’t want to scandalize Ted.”

“Ted?”

“Your mysterious squirrel visitor. I’ve named him Ted. Anyway, be right back,” she says, disappearing out the door.

Kristoff just shakes his head, smiling softly as he finishes taking his clothes off.

“Are you indecent?” Anna asks from behind the other side of the door, no more than a minute later.

He laughs. “Yes, Anna.”

“Good.” She comes back in holding… oh. He should have realized.

She’s holding a cord of the cotton braided rope they were working with, earlier.

“It really was rude of you,” she says in a pointedly neutral tone, “lulling me to sleep like that when I told you I wanted to stay awake with you. So we’re going to…” She frowns, searching for words that feel right to her. “…work on your discipline. And listening skills.”

He’s _beaming,_ which is maybe a little out of character for the scene she’s trying to set up. “Okay, Anna.”

“And I…” She bites her lip, dropping the persona she’d apparently found along with the rope outside. “I’m tired of being afraid to touch you. So I’m just going to get my hands on you for a little while, if that’s okay?”

“Very okay,” he promises, already feeling himself get hard.

“Okay. Good.” She walks back over to the bed, shucking his shirt as she goes, and examines the headboard—frowning at the way it remains a single, solid piece of wood no matter how much she stares at it. “This isn’t ideal. Thoughts?”

“You could just tie my hands, without lashing me to anything?” he suggests, but she shakes her head. He finds the rejection strangely encouraging—she’s got a _vision_ for this. “The feet of the frame, then. The rope’s long enough.”

“Help me move it?”

Together, they tug the bed away from the walls so she has access to all four bed legs; with only a little coaching from him—it’s wild, how quickly she’s picked up the skill—he watches as she hitches one end of the rope to the inside upper leg, tying it off and giving it an experimental tug. It holds strong.

“Hands up and together for me, please,” she says, and he lies back and raises his arms, wrist on wrist. “Does stretching like that bother the bruise?”

“Nope.”

“Alright. Let me know if that changes.”

He doesn’t have a word for the way he feels as she binds his hands. He’s—hyperaware of every nerve ending, of the gentle rasp of the rope against his skin, of the confident movements of Anna’s fingers. He stares up at the ceiling, heart racing giddily.

“Not too tight?”

“No, Anna.”

“Test it for me?”

He tugs his hands forward, trying to break free—but after about two inches of give in the air, they stop fast, pinned back to the leg of the bed. He flexes outward, next, trying to pull his wrists apart, but that’s a non-starter, too. He’s not going anywhere.

“Nothing doing.”

She pops back into view, perching herself next to him on the mattress and resting her hand on his chest. It reminds him so viscerally of their first time that tears suddenly spring to his eyes—how did he _find_ this girl? What did he ever do to be so lucky?

“Kristoff?” she asks, alarmed, and he shakes his head.

“It’s fine, I’m fine.”

“You’re _crying.”_

“It’s nothing, I just—”

“Color?”

“Green,” he insists, using his feet to lift up just enough that he can bump her hip with his own. “I just love you, that’s all.”

“Oh,” she sighs shakily, reaching up to wipe at her own eyes, just a little. “Well if that’s all.”

“What about you?” he asks, nerves coming over him without warning. That he’s bullied her into this, somehow—that she’s still not on board with it, not like he is. “What’s your color?”

“Green,” she assures him, running a hand affectionately through his hair. “That was a good idea, by the way. The flags. I should have said.”

He can feel his ears getting hot. “I don’t need you to praise me for every little thing,” he mumbles.

She reaches down, apparently deciding the rest of his hair deserves equal treatment as she gently massages his balls. Her tone is smug: “Don’t you?”

There’s no hiding the way his cock jumps to attention at the teasing, bumping ineffectually against her wrist. He has _missed_ that hand. “Anna…”

“It’s alright, I’ve got you. Just—relax and let me do the work for a minute, won’t you, handsome?”

Okay, yeah. Yeah, he can do that.

As she explores him anew with her mouth and her hands, Kristoff finds himself slipping—back, and down, into the headspace he only ever finds when he’s with her. He’s not zoned out, exactly; almost the opposite, attention tuned intensely on her every move, her every breath, as her customary monologue washes over him. Hyper-focused on the way she makes him feel. It’s… his brain doesn’t get loud in the same way hers seems to, he thinks, but he still marvels at it. At the quiet she brings him when, with her help, he’s able to find this stairwell in his head. The way they walk down every step together, one by one, into the peaceful depths.

He hisses with repressed laughter when she finds the places where he’s unexpectedly ticklish, and shivers, overwhelmed, when she finds the places he’s most sensitive. She works her way up his body, and then further still—around the curve of his deltoid and up his right arm. And up.

Dread roils low in his stomach.

“Anna.”

“Mmm?”

“I—yellow,” he forces himself to say, then sucks in a breath. She pauses immediately. “What are you doing?”

“Um. The scabs on your arm. I was going to… kiss them better?”

“Red,” he blurts. She sits up to get a better look at his face, but he can’t bring himself to meet her eyes. The bite is—he doesn’t want Anna’s mouth there. He doesn’t want her mouth anywhere _near_ there. Doesn’t want her infected by the memory; doesn’t want to have to associate the two. “Sorry, I don’t… please don’t,” he says weakly.

“Okay. I won’t,” she says, reaching out to cup his jaw and gently turn his head so he’ll look at her. “I won’t, baby, I promise. You don’t have to explain.”

“Sorry. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid. Thank you for telling me. You’re—you’re such a good boy for telling me,” she says, visibly feeling the phrase out as she says it. Her nose wrinkles in distaste. “Nope, never mind. That’s a red, too.”

“I’m… not good?” he questions, mostly teasing and only like ten percent worried. Well. Eighty/twenty, maybe.

“No, you are, just. ‘Good boy.’ I don’t think I like it. It feels a little… demeaning? It’s like when you called me Highness; it doesn’t feel right. You’re not my servant. I wouldn’t even say that _to_ a servant.” She runs a thumb affectionately across his bottom lip. “I’ll just have to figure out other ways of telling you you’re terrific.”

Feeling daring, he opens his mouth and draws her thumb in—then clamps down and sucks before she can think to pull away, swirling his tongue around the digit.

“Wha— _oh,”_ she moans, hips bucking instinctively where she’s knelt on the bed. Her whole body jerks. “Okay, that—that shouldn’t feel so good. What on earth? That’s ridiculous,” she huffs, breathless.

Then she grins, slinging a leg over one of his thighs to straddle him. She slips her thumb out of his mouth and instead presses three fingers against the seal of his lips.

“Do it again?”

He sucks on her fingers, enjoying the way her eyes fall shut and she rocks herself against his thigh at the sensation—not least because the movement tilts her knee forward just enough to get decent pressure on his groin.

“That’s—I don’t—you’re—” Anna’s laughing, too turned on to get the words out, and he slides his leg up, slowly, to give her more to grind against. “Mm, thank you, that’s nice, that’s so good…”

For the first time, he feels the instinct to pull against his restraints. She’s just so beautiful like this; he wants to _touch_ her, feel her skin under his fingertips—

She blinks her eyes open and clocks the way he’s flexing against the rope. “Color?” she asks, taking her fingers away so he can respond.

“Green,” he groans.

“Then what’s all this about?” she asks, reaching a hand up to rest a palm against his joined wrists. His arms relax immediately at the touch, the tether’s tension going slack. Her tone isn’t demanding or punitive, just—curious.

“Wanna get my hands on you, too,” he says, echoing her earlier words. “Missed touching you.”

“I see,” she says, playfully drawing out the vowel. “Remind me again why you don’t get to touch me right now?”

 _Because it’s hot,_ his brain says, but though it’s definitely _an_ answer—and a correct one—he’s pretty sure it’s not the one she’s looking for.

“Because you fell asleep.”

“Oh, sure. Way to blame the victim,” she scoffs, hips still rolling steadily against his thigh. Her hand drifts down his bound arms and comes to rest at the edge of the bandage, where a few smaller bruises, green and half-healed, peek out. She presses gently, making his cock jump. “Try again.”

“Because—I tricked you. I didn’t listen.”

“Better. Maybe if you show me that you can listen, we can put touching me back on the table.”

He has to assume the pun was unintended, but that doesn’t stop images of taking Anna on, against, atop his kitchen table from springing immediately and vividly to mind. He can’t resist: “If on the table’s where you want it…”

She gasps, fake-scandalized. “Kristoff Bjorgman! Why I never…”

“Never?” he laughs, because—look at them.

“Not on a _table.”_

“Not yet.”

“Look who’s suddenly Mister Chatty,” she grumbles, reaching down and stroking him with a maddeningly weak grip—more tease than touch. “Don’t you know I’m trying to set a mood here?”

He pulls at the ropes again, squirming. Somehow this is worse than her not touching him at all. “Anna, please…”

Her fingers tighten the slightest bit. “Can you be good for me? Will you listen?”

_“Yes.”_

“Alright.” Then she removes her hand, which— _why—_ only to reposition her legs to straddle him properly and sink down onto him, all in one fell swoop. He’s not sure which of them gasps louder. She leans forward, bracing her hands against his pecs for balance. Her eyes are squeezed shut.

“You okay?” he asks, wishing he could run a soothing hand down her side. They’ve been at it all day, but it’s still been—well, a really long time since he’s been inside her like this.

She nods, even as tears bead at the corners of her eyes. But when they open again, they’re vivid and sparkling, and she’s beaming at him. “I’m fantastic, handsome. How are you?”

“I’m… listening?”

And Anna laughs, and laughs, and moves above him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Hope those two are staying hydrated after that workout.
> 
> Chapter title/Kristoff's sexy little ditty that he makes up on the spot is "Touch" by Seal. If you've got the notion, drop me a line-- I love hearing from you.


	14. gotta look for the green

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for a brief depressive episode and discussions of mental health, but nothing too heavy.

They end up staying at the cabin four more days.

On day one, they wake up early again, Anna whining every step of the way. Kristoff keeps a steady eye on her mood through the afternoon, unsure if the tension he sometimes detects in her smile or between her shoulder blades out of the corner of his eye is really there. But it only makes sense, he tells himself, that she’d still be a little tentative with him; one day of sexy fun probably isn’t enough to fully balance the weeks of weirdness that had built up between them. It’s like ice—once it’s had a chance to melt and re-freeze, it’s never the same surface you were working with last time.

And it’s probably all in his head, anyway. Anna’s confident and competitive as he teaches her the proper technique to split firewood, and, just to make fun of her fake to-do list from the day before, how to fish.

“You’re such a troll,” she complains.

“Well, I _was_ raised by them,” he shrugs, smirking; her unimpressed huff only makes him laugh.

Right when they’re packing the last of their fishing gear and getting ready to head back, the sky opens up in a sudden rainstorm, thunder booming. Anna shrieks, jumping in surprise—and manages, in her shock, to toss the nice bundle of fish he’d caught for dinner back into the depths of the lake.

“Anna!” he chastises—that was several hours’ worth of effort—but she just smiles at him apologetically and makes a break for the path.

“C’mon! You’ll get soaked!”

He bellyaches at her the whole way home, certain she’s not absorbing a word of it and unable to stop himself from sounding like an irredeemable spoilsport. She’s breathless with giggles, darting from tree to tree in an attempt to stay covered from the worst of the deluge. Kristoff doesn’t change his pace. He’s going to get wet either way, so why bother?

She sprints the last fifty yards or so to the cabin, and is already halfway out of her dripping clothes by the time he gets inside.

“—I’m just saying,” he grouses, as though his monologue hadn’t been interrupted, “how would _you_ feel, if I’d thrown all those logs you chopped this morning into the lake?”

“Confused, mostly. Why would we have carried firewood to the lake?” she says with a shit-eating grin. “Take that off, you’ll catch your death.”

He starts shucking his clothing. “It’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

“That was _dinner.”_

“Yeah, but you know? Tonight I’m feeling hungry for something else.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he gripes, too focused on his lost hard work to process the way her smile has gone absolutely lascivious—

And then Anna sinks to her knees, and oh, okay, now he gets it. Never mind.

* * *

The next day, they’re stuck inside because of the storm.

Anna sleeps in, which Kristoff chalks up to the cloud cover and soothing sound of the rain against his un-curtained windows. He putters, and makes breakfast, and listens to her toss and turn and let herself fall back asleep almost a half-dozen times.

It’s only when she finally does get up, just before noon, that he realizes it’s one of Those Days. She’s vague and preoccupied when he leaves her to her thoughts; distant and melancholy when he tries to engage with her. Her attention wanders, listless.

He’d been right, then. She _had_ been feeling off yesterday.

Kristoff tries not to take it personally. This is a fact about Anna, as inarguable a trait as any she has: her eyes are bluer than weather, and she’s got three-hundred-and-he-forgets-how-many freckles, and sometimes she gets numb, and far away, and there’s not much that can be done about it. There’s rarely any rhyme or reason to it as far as he can tell, but sometimes it happens this way—she’ll fixate on something, go hard, and then crash, her body too worn out to keep up with her mind any longer. Most of the time, these spells don’t last longer than a day or two, but there’s never much he can actually do about it. The only thing for it is to wait it out.

He finds that harder to stomach in the close quarters of the cabin than he usually does. At home, the castle is so large and cavernous that it feels like there’s enough room for her to wander through it, and for him to give her that space. There’s always work that needs doing, people that need attending to, a distraction to sink into. Here, though, it’s like the feelings have nowhere to go. They bounce off the walls, echoing and amplifying. She meets every one of his suggestions with a dull, “I don’t know. Whatever you want is fine.” Her typically indulgent appetite is nowhere to be found.

Eventually, he breaks—he can’t take the quiet anymore. “I’ll be right back, okay?” he says, darting out into the downpour and sprinting for the shed.

He returns with his lute.

As he sit himself down at the table and adjusts the pegs—all this moisture in the air is murder on his tuning—Anna sheepishly pokes her head out from the burrow of blankets she’s made for herself.

“I didn’t know you’d brought that,” she says quietly, and he shrugs.

“Always good to be prepared. Do you mind?”

She shakes her head.

He finishes tuning and starts playing scales, trying to work out something constructive to say to her.

Before he lands on anything useful, she says, “You could come over here. If you want to.”

He’s across the room before she can finish the sentence. She doesn’t seem to have any qualms about making herself comfortable when he gets situated on the bed; she lays out supine beneath him, head cradled in his lap.

“I need both hands to play,” he warns, tapping the worry line between her brows.

It furrows under the pad of his finger as she frowns in annoyance. “I don’t want to _sleep,_ ” she says, sounding offended. Which is a little rich, considering the fact that she’s been trying to do nothing else all day, but he’ll take it. “I want to listen.”

So he plays, and he sings. A song about how relationships are hard work, but it’s work he’s willing to do. About the lengths he’d go to, to put a smile on her face. About how it shatters him to see her unhappy, but it’s something they’ll get through together.

When he’s through, she tilts her head to look up at him, lips quirked inscrutably in an expression that isn’t exactly a smile.

“You really love me, huh?” she says. Her hands are folded across her stomach, wringing together in a familiar nervous gesture.

He sets the lute aside to see her better. “Oh, did you notice? I was trying to be subtle about it.”

She winces, broad and comic; his heart soars at the elasticity of her face, even if he can see the effort that’s going into it. “Oof. Kind of embarrassing for you, then.”

“Total nightmare,” he agrees.

She turns onto her side, pillowing her head more comfortably against his thigh. “Would you play more? It’s—nice. To listen.”

“Any requests?” he asks, grabbing for the instrument once more

She shakes her head again, further burrowing her face into his lap. “Whatever you like.”

He plays every kind of song he can think of—slow and fast, happy and sad, goofy and romantic.

It will stop raining eventually. He’s sure of it.

* * *

On day three, it’s still pouring.

Anna wakes when he shoves a mug of tea under her nose—a promising sign—and watches from the bed, sipping slowly, as he makes their now customary bowls of oatmeal.

“So I’ve been thinking,” she says—volunteering information, another good sign—and he tries to keep his movements and tone uninterested and casual when he responds.

“Yeah?” (Very suave.)

“I’m… I don’t want to waste the time we have up here. I feel like I’ve learned a lot from you—” He can’t help it; he snorts immaturely at that, and she flushes even as she barrels on, “—and I was thinking it might be good if I taught you something, too.”

Well she’s definitely acting like she feels better, but she’s still acting _weird._

“Sounds like you have something specific in mind.”

She bites her lip. “I was thinking—I could teach you how to dance? Properly, not just knowing enough steps that you can get by.”

Ah.

“It’s just—” she says, rushing forward before he can settle on an objection to voice, “I think you’ll be good at it, once you’ve had the chance to practice. And I think that next time we have to throw a party, you’ll… maybe feel less out of place if you know what you’re doing. Plus…” Her eyes dart away as color rises in her cheeks. “You have to lead. That’s how it works. And I think that’d probably be good for us.”

He can’t really argue against any of that. But more than that, he doesn’t have it in him to try. He wants this for her—a project, a task, something she can put her focus into—and he’d do things way stupider and more desperate than dance, if that’s what it took to make her feel more like herself.

Still:

“Can we start with the slow ones?” he asks, thinking with dread about the complicated quadrilles that require exchanging partners and knowing, at his estimation, approximately a thousand different moves.

A smile tentatively draws itself across her face. “We can absolutely start with the slow ones.”

So they push what furniture he has against the walls and get started—Anna first coaching from the sidelines and counting out steps while he shuffles in place with a broomstick cradled across his elbows to guide his posture, then stepping into his embrace once he’s gotten the hang of it.

Any amount of embarrassment would be worth feeling the way she comes alive in his arms. Inch by inch, hour by hour.

And while he probably wouldn’t admit it without cajoling, she has a point about the value here. There’s something confidence-building in leading—in the way he doesn’t feel quite so ham-handed and ungainly, when just the slightest hint of a change in his touch can send her swirling gracefully across the floor. In the way that he can tell additional practice could encode these movements into his muscles just as surely as the familiar rhythm of ice harvesting lives in them.

“There now,” she murmurs that evening, curling up next to him where he’s seated on the floor eating a carrot. (Cooking dinner and sitting at the table had just felt like too much work after all that stomping and spinning, he’d told her). “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

He takes a loud, crunching bite of carrot, letting it make the sassy noise for him. “I mean. I lived,” he shrugs, trying to keep the grumpiness in his voice to only about half its usual level.

She chuckles, then walks her fingers across his thigh. He suppresses a shiver at the unexpected touch. “Well. Maybe I could… make it up to you?”

He frowns, and lifts her hand off of his leg to hold it in his own. “What? No. I didn’t do it for a reward or something. That’s not…” It feels very important that he say this. “This isn’t what everything is now. I’m just trying to be a good boyfriend. You know?”

She blushes and looks away. “No, I know, but I still—want to.” She swallows. “I always want to. Even when I don’t, y’know, _want_ to, I still… want to.” She groans and thumps her head backwards against the wall. “I’m sorry, that doesn’t make any sense.”

“No, it does—” Or at least, he thinks it does? “—but I just. I don’t want you to feel like you have to act a certain way or be a certain version of yourself because you think it’s what I like best. I love _you,_ Anna. I like all of you best. Even when…” He doesn’t know how to talk about it, about the sadness that isn’t sadness. Isn’t sure if she wants him to, or—frankly—if whether she wants him to should be a deciding factor, here. “No matter what,” he says instead, and means it. There’s nothing he doesn’t love about her. That’s the whole point.

Her lips quirk up and her eyes slip closed. “That’s sweet, and I love you too, but…” He can see how much effort it takes her to get the next part out: _“I_ don’t really like me much. When I’m. When it gets like that.”

“I guess I can’t expect you to,” he reasons. “It doesn’t seem like a particularly good time. But… that’s what I’m here for. And Elsa and Olaf and everyone else. To—make sure, right? That you’re loved the same either way.”

She nods a little, re-orienting their hands so their fingers are entwined more to her liking.

It’s a long moment before she speaks.

“I… thought a lot, yesterday, about what you told me. About how what we did the night of the ball helped you; how it made you feel. And I guess I realized that I’ve never had anything like that. Where I felt like—where I was looking for…” She bites her lip and tries again. “Or I mean—I feel like I’m _always_ messy and out of control and you’ve got to catch me and clean up behind me as I go. You know? Especially on days like yesterday. And it made me worry that—I don’t see how you can trust me to—”

“Anna—”

“No, I mean it. You were—you’ve been _so_ vulnerable with me, and so brave, and I’m… it means everything to me that you feel safe enough with me to explore that side of yourself. But we both know how I can get. Or how I panic. What if I’m supposed to be taking care of you, but really all it is is you’re _still_ taking care of me? It’s not fair to put that on you; not when I’m already… y’know.” She shrugs and gestures vaguely at herself. “Like this.”

He takes a deep breath—in, out—and tries to find words that aren’t just _stop it, you’re amazing, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me._ Words that she actually stands a chance of hearing, given the mood she’s in.

“Can I ask you something?”

She gesticulates again, with the hand held in his this time—something to the tune of _well I’m a captive audience, so._ “Sure.”

“Could you tell me what it felt like for _you,_ the night of the ball? Once the scarves came out, I mean.”

Anna licks her lips and shifts her weight, uncomfortable. “I felt… um. Confident is maybe the wrong word. Certain? Um. Possessive, I guess. And protective.” She thinks, then adds: “Scared out of my mind.”

“Of what?”

“That I could have lost you. To the blizzard, or to those jerks who almost frightened you off. So being able to reclaim you for myself like that, it felt—I don’t know. Righteous. It felt like it fit. Like _we_ fit. Even if in hindsight I think we should have done it differently.”

“And what about the first time you blindfolded me?”

A smile steals over her face. “You told me to have fun with it. To enjoy myself. That’s how I felt. Just… happy. Playful. And definitely confident, that time.”

“Yeah, but I meant the _first_ time.”

He watches her expression morph from an impish sort of pride to belated embarrassment as she recalls their first kiss. “I ran you into a pole.”

“Okay, yes, but. Counterpoint: you set me up with a whole new livelihood.”

“Which only needed replacing because I got your stuff blown up trying to outrun a pack of wolves.”

“Wolves that _you_ beat away. Anna. I understand why you’re nervous, but I _know_ you. When something needs doing, you don’t panic. You’re not the kind to fret and dither. You act.”

Rather than keep fighting him, voicing the _But what if I do the wrong thing?_ he can practically see stuck in her throat, she sinks further into the floor and smirks. “And you need doing, huh?”

He barks out a surprised guffaw. “Oh, desperately. But that’s what I’m trying to say—that’s why things work when you’re in charge,” he insists, squeezing her hand. “You know how it feels to be spiraling, and so you know what it takes to snap out of it.”

“Do I?” she laughs, but it’s an empty version of her usual brightness. “Sometimes I think I just replace those problems with different, shallower problems and solve those instead. Like Christmas. Or my wallpaper.”

“Or dancing?” he asks, nudging into her side. “Yeah, I think that’s right. And I think it _works_. Maybe not perfectly, and not always, but. Not every bad feeling can be solved. But you find the ones that can. One step at a time. That’s—I’ve never known how to do that. You do it like it’s breathing. And if it helps you as much as it helps me, then… isn’t that enough? To start with?”

Her closed-mouth smile gets a little more genuine. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay. Can we go to bed now?”

He frowns. “I mean, it’s still a little early, but yeah, if you’re tired—”

“Kristoff.” Her eyes are open again; she’s laughing at him a little. “Not tired. May I take you to bed now?”

There are promises there, in the blue of her irises. He knows she wants to test his theory.

He smiles back. “You may.”

* * *

And on day four—

“We never did have that talk.”

—they talk, apparently.

It’s been a good day, is the thing. It stopped raining overnight. Anna woke in good spirits, and they’d spent the whole afternoon outside enjoying the clear weather—playing in the creek, racing each other around his property. She’d made him a freaking flower crown. He’d thought…

“What talk?” Kristoff asks, because he’s pretty sure he’s talked more the past week than he has in the whole rest of his life combined. About himself, about his feelings, about _anything._ The idea that after all that something has _still_ been gnawing at her, left unsaid, throws him off his equilibrium. How have they not covered it all by now?

She bites her lip. “About… how long you’re staying up here.”

Now he’s _really_ confused. “What are you talking about? We decided we’re going back tomorrow.”

“You’re bringing me home tomorrow,” she corrects gently. “But… you don’t have to stay, if you don’t want.” He opens his mouth to object—is _that_ what she’s been so down about?—but she talks over him. “It’s only—I’ve gotten really used to having you around, the last few months. When you moved in for the winter, it was everything I’d ever wanted. But now that I’ve seen—” She swallows hard around whatever is upsetting her.

“Anna—”

“It’s so beautiful up here. And it suits you so well. I guess I was hoping that if I didn’t say anything you’d just come back and things would stay the way they were, but… I don’t want to be selfish. I don’t want you to feel like you have to stay at the castle all the time just because I’d prefer you to. That’s—not a rule I get to make. I’m not in charge of that.”

“Sweetheart…” He reaches across the table, palm up. With a hesitant smile, she takes his hand. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Of course you can.”

“It’s really embarrassing.”

She squeezes his fingers. “Well you already admitted that you love me, and all. Can’t be any more embarrassing than that.”

He smiles at her, then tries to express what it is he’s feeling. “I think I might actually… _like_ … people?” he admits, wincing like saying so pains him deeply. “Not most people, mind you—most people suck—but I’m not _as_ against the concept of having to spend time with other humans, generally, as I maybe thought I was. _Some_ people are…” He doesn’t want to overstate this. “…okay.” She’s holding back laughter, now. Fortified, he continues: “I built this place to be a refuge for me and Sven, and it’s been really good at that. It’s close to the trails that get up to the mountains, and it’s close to the Valley of Living Rock, and… that’s it, really. It’s not close to anything else. I didn’t want it to be. But now—I’ve got people I want to be close to. You know? So you’re not… stopping me from going home, when you let me stay at the castle. You’re—you let me—you _gave_ me—”

He hadn’t expected to find himself fighting back tears, this evening; he doesn’t really know what to do with the feeling. Luckily, Anna does—after less than a second of him blinking at her helplessly, jaw working, she gets up from her chair and crosses over to him, cradling his head close in a hug so he can bury his face in her stomach. She cards her fingers through his hair, making soothing noises as she rocks them back and forth.

“I didn’t know you felt so strongly about Olaf,” she jokes, and he laughs wetly into her blouse.

“What can I say, the little guy has a way with people.”

She traces the shell of his ear. Thinks for a long moment. “I really won’t mind, you know. If you need to come up here to get away from it all, every now and then,” she eventually says.

“I’m sure I will,” he agrees. “And when I do, I’ll bring you with me, as long as you’re not too busy.” She makes a protesting noise, but he lifts his head to look her in the eye and cut her off. “Whatever _it_ is that I have to get away from, it’s not you. Okay? We’re—we’re okay. I don’t need you to keep looking for problems to solve or things to apologize for. Not about us. Not about this. We’re alright.”

She rests her chin on the top of his head—slumping over him; letting him take her weight. “It’ll be nice to go home,” she says.

It will.

* * *

To Anna’s relief, their ride back to the castle couldn’t be more different from their ride up. They spend the whole trip talking lightly, joking and teasing. The two of them even take a detour through the Valley of Living Rock to say hello to Kristoff’s family, and they’re embarrassing and invasive and wonderful and Kristoff can’t stop surreptitiously meeting Anna’s gaze and rolling his eyes, like, _can you believe I have to put up with this?_ Like it’s such a burden to be adored. She knows he’s absolutely full of it.

There’s very little Anna wouldn’t do, she realizes for the dozenth, hundredth, thousand time, to hold tight to this feeling and know for certain she could keep it forever. This balance they’ve found; this comfort with and in each other. It feels fragile, still, and precious.

She’ll fight for it.

They’re on the outskirts of town when Sven starts prancing and jumping, nearly knocking them out of their seats.

“Whoa! Buddy, you’re rocking the wagon—!” Kristoff warns, but then they realize what Sven’s so excited about.

Elsa and Olaf are riding out to meet them— _not_ on Kjekk, Anna notes with relief. Elsa’s still an amateur, and seeing as Kjekk is the most anxious horse Anna’s ever known, and Elsa the most anxious human, she’s glad to delay their pairing at least a few more months.

“Hey! Look at you with your well-practiced canter. A regular _takt und_ _losgelassenheit_ champion,” Anna beams.

“Gesundheit,” Olaf says.

“Thank you,” Elsa says.

Kristoff can’t quite conceal his guffaw.

“Did you come all the way out here to meet little old us?” Anna asks as Kristoff brings Sven to a stop so they can all get down. Olaf is hugging Anna before her feet even hit the ground.

Elsa bites her lip, dismounting. “Oh, I—I was showing Olaf how a sextant works and we happened to see you coming.”

“You were four and three-fifths miles away!” Olaf reports happily, nuzzling his face against Anna’s knees. “But I like you much closer.”

Anna leans down to hug him properly, but never breaks eye contact with her sister. “I like you closer too, Olaf.” She sees right through this _it was Olaf’s idea_ act. Elsa missed her.

(It’s coming up on a year now, and that still sends a little thrill through Anna’s chest. Elsa _missed_ her. Elsa’s always missed her. Who would’ve thought?)

“How was the cabin?” Elsa asks politely once it’s her turn for a hug.

Anna launches into a (somewhat redacted) monologue about everything they got up to in the mountains as they remount and head into town—the way the sky opened up at the end of their fishing trip; just how many logs she was able to split by herself with an axe; the fact that Kristoff can _dance_ now. She doesn’t miss the way Kristoff and Elsa keep exchanging significant (on his part), relieved (on Elsa’s) eye contact, though she pretends to.

Apparently shutting yourself in your room for a week and going on a manic redecorating tear is _worrisome,_ or something.

Her summary lasts them all the way back to the castle, where footmen stream out the front doors and start unloading the wagon under Kai’s direction—utterly ignoring Kristoff’s protests that he’s more than capable of carrying his own bags back to his room.

“I can get it—” he insists, before sitting back with a groan as the luggage disappears before his eyes.

“You’ll just have to be faster than me next time, sir,” Kai says with a cool shrug they can all see is barely hiding a smirk. Kristoff grumbles.

“Lunch?” Elsa suggests.

* * *

By the time lunch ends, Anna and Kristoff have found themselves locked in a heated debate about whether or not stew is a kind of soup (he says they’re basically the same thing, she says there wouldn’t be a different word for it if it were the same thing), and she doesn’t even notice the way that the conversation is continuing up stairwells and across hallways.

Not until they reach her room.

“—just because you cook more often than I do doesn’t mean my opinions don’t—oh,” Anna says. As if it’s surprising to find her bedroom door here, the same place it’s been for her whole entire life. “Well. To be continued then, I guess?”

He frowns. “Huh? Why can’t I—oh. Yeah, sure. If… yeah, that’s fine,” he stutters, looking bummed out for a reason she can’t quite identify. He puts on a smile. “I get it. If you don’t want me to see yet,” he says, nodding his chin over her shoulder to imply whatever lies beyond the door.

“What? No. I only meant that—we’ve been together for days and days, Kristoff. I’d understand if you, um. Needed a break.” Three hours. Their synchronicity lasted three whole hours.

He laughs, then. “I’d like to see what you’ve done with the place. May I come in?”

She nods. Swallows, and opens the door for him.

After a week away it surprises her all over again, just a bit, to see how different it is—she’d only barely gotten used to it before they’d left. But she finds herself evaluating it anew through his eyes as he takes it in: the bed, hung with fresh draperies and clear across the room from where he’s used to it being. The new wallpaper, tessellating diamonds of interlocked dark green and purple like dappled dusk light through a lush forest. The rug he’d helped her pick out on the floor at the foot of the bed.

“Do you… like it?” she asks, because there’s no way she can stop herself.

“It’s very you,” he says, which both isn’t an answer and is an obvious yes.

She laughs, shoulders slackening in relief, kicks off her shoes, and collapses face-first onto the bed. “Mmm. Fancy mattress, I’ve missed you,” she groans, voice muffled by the duvet.

Kristoff laughs. “Do you need me to leave the two of you alone?”

“No, c’mere,” she says, blindly making grabby hands in his general direction as an enticement to join her. She feels the bed dip as he stretches out beside her.

“I’m going to miss sleeping with you,” he murmurs quietly, then splutters at the way it sounds. “Not that—I still plan on sleeping with you, obviously, I just mean—sharing a bed with you. For sleeping. At night.” She turns to look at him in time to see him scrub a frustrated hand down his face. “I let myself get used to it, is all.” Before she can comment about how sweet he’s being, or at the very least assure him she feels the same, he adds: “Maybe I can get Kai to install a gravel tumbler in my room. It’ll sound almost the same as your snoring.”

She’s not really at a good angle to kick him, so she flops a hand over and pinches his side. He squirms away, chuckling.

“But honestly though. I’m—really glad you came up with me. Thank you,” he says, and her heart melts.

“My pleasure, handsome.” She doesn’t mean it to be an innuendo, but he blushes all the same. “And actually, that reminds me…”

With effort, she manages to push herself back off the bed and goes to the corner, where Kai’s footmen have placed all of her luggage from the trip. Unceremoniously, she begins emptying their contents onto the floor—it’s mostly dirty laundry, anyway—and then moves to the wardrobe to start packing it anew.

“Going somewhere?” Kristoff asks.

“Well, the clothes are. I’m making an emergency kit for your room,” she explains, trying to evaluate which of two frocks she’s more likely to miss if they leave her regular rotation. Shrugging, she packs both—they’ll be worn often enough no matter which room she keeps them in. “Meant to do it ages ago.”

“Oh,” Kristoff says, in a tone that suggests he’s staring at her ass a little more than he’s paying attention to her words. “Should I go make one, too?”

“Definitely, but you don’t have to do it now.”

She starts unlacing the corset-front of her dress.

“Anna.”

“Mm?”

“Are you—is it really that important that the dress you’re wearing go in the emergency kit?”

It drops to the floor. “Huh? Oh, no, I’m just going to go take a bath. No offense, but skinny dipping in the creek next to your cabin isn’t quite up to my usual standard.” He just stares at her, dumbfounded, as she passes by him heading toward the bathroom, completely nude. She gives him a push: “Are you coming?”

A blink. Another.

“Not yet,” he puns, and they race each other to the ensuite.

* * *

Spring closes out in a riot of color, all of Arendelle suddenly in bloom as summer arrives.

It makes Anna a little envious, actually, when the painter Elsa had commissioned over Christmas finally comes to town and sets about doing a whole series of portraits for them. Anna’s picked up a lot of weird hobbies over the years to pass the time, but painting was never one of them. She wishes she had the talent for it, now—wishes she could capture the wild beauty of her country, alive with flowers and commerce and _people,_ the same way Sophia is able to capture the warmth of Kristoff’s eyes, the hesitant confidence of Elsa’s smile, the vividness of Olaf’s personality with just a few strokes of her brush.

She’ll just have to work extra hard to keep the memories, instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kristoff's song/chapter title from "See Her Smile" from Tick... Tick... Boom! 
> 
> As ever, I look forward to your thoughts and feelings, should you be so inclined to share them with me ❤️


	15. summer night air; secret moments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for mild consensual pain play.
> 
> Also I know we've all mutually decided Anna's birthday is on the 21st but shhh let me have this.

Anna hasn’t breathed a word about how her birthday is coming up in a few weeks. Her ‘golden’ birthday, to be precise—19 on June 19th. It’s a concept Kristoff had never even heard of until Birgitta Angstrom brought him up to speed in a voice that rapidly evolved from unimpressed to deeply alarmed as he’d explained his predicament to her while helplessly looking around Nils’ shop for a hat that screamed _Anna._

“It’s her golden birthday, and you’re getting her a _hat?”_ Birgitta had repeated, and he’d never known it was possible to feel so thoroughly eviscerated by a ten-year-old.

“No?” he’d said, because her tone made it clear yes was definitely the wrong answer but it’s not like he’d had any better ideas.

“Well good luck with that,” Birgitta had laughed, flouncing out the door without so much as a suggestion. Like everyone has a princess for a girlfriend and he’s the only one who finds it hard to navigate these sorts of things.

So Kristoff has been a little—okay, a lot—nervous, lately.

He knows, deep down, that Anna would be happy with anything he decides to do for her. He knows that she loves him, and just wants to be made to feel special, and that he manages to pull that off pretty regularly even on the non-birthday days.

But he also knows these things are important to her. Milestones, and events. It’s not something he’s ever had for himself, but he wants it to be good for her; wants it to be all of the things she deserves.

So he decides to call in reinforcements, gathering his crack team of specialists one afternoon in the den.

“Scavenger hunt!” Olaf suggests, hand raised and fingers wiggling like he’s waiting to be called on in school.

“You already gave her a scavenger hunt for Christmas, buddy,” Kristoff reminds him as Elsa gently puts his hand down.

“Oh, yeah.”

“I’m sorry Kristoff,” Elsa murmurs, looking genuinely remorseful. “I promised Anna ages ago that we’d go on a horseback ride into the hills, just the two of us.”

His heart sinks. “Oh. That—makes sense.” He knows better than to invite himself on a sister bonding trip, but he can’t help but wonder, in a voice tinier than he intends: “So I’m not going to see her at all?” Maybe that’s why Anna hasn’t been fishing for hints about what he’s got planned; she already has a better offer.

“Of course you will,” Elsa says, laughing at him like he’s being silly. “I’ll have her back to you by dinner. It just looks like we’ll have to divide and conquer, this time. Next year we can collaborate on something even better.”

 _Next year._ She says it so easily, like he’s unquestionably a permanent fixture in their lives. Not even worth wondering about.

His nerves calm, just like that.

“Dinner it is,” he says, brainstorming already.

* * *

Anna’s never had a birthday like this.

Or, okay, not—not _never,_ exactly, she knows when she was little that Elsa and her parents made a big deal of it, and there was chocolate and stuffed animals and… juggling? She feels like she remembers juggling?

But then everything had changed, and the one thing Anna had wanted more than anything in the world _(Elsa)_ was the one thing her parents refused to indulge her with. And then they were gone, and then…

Last year for her birthday, the most exciting thing that happened was another fitting for her dress for Elsa’s coronation. Just that, the promise of maybe setting eyes on her sister the following month, had been enough to buoy her spirits for the whole afternoon. She’d reread a favorite book, and beaten her own best time in a footrace around the castle, and Kai and Gerda had given her a cake with eighteen candles on it in lieu of dinner. And—and she’d been _happy._ At the time, she’d thought that was pretty good, all things considered.

There’s just no comparison.

This morning, Olaf had crashed into her room with breakfast in bed—nineteen of her favorite foods, only about half of which were things people normally eat for breakfast. And she’d pulled him up to sit with her, his flurry getting her pillows damp as he’d cuddled into her side, and Elsa and Kristoff had come in all _there’s no way you’ll be able to eat all this by yourself so we figured we’d come help,_ and it’s not like she was going to take a challenge like that lying down. In the early afternoon, her stomach ache had abated, and Kristoff had kissed her forehead and said _I’ll see you later_ and she’s been riding with Elsa ever since. Exploring the less-trodden trails and racing and laughing and sharing inside jokes.

Her heart feels so full she could burst.

The sun is still high in the sky when they turn back for home, as it always is at this time of year. The next few days, Anna knows, will be filled with solstice celebrations and bonfires in town. And she’s looking forward to them, but she’s also very grateful to have had this day just with her family.

“Last one home is a rotten egg!” Elsa announces when they get in view of the castle, picking up speed, and Anna’s so surprised by the fact that Elsa’s galloping without fear that she almost forgets to chase after her.

Almost.

“Elsa, you stinker!”

Elsa wins, because she _cheated,_ and the two of them are still bickering about it when they enter the stables—where they find Kristoff waiting on the bench he carved, fiddling nervously with a bouquet of flowers. And yes, Anna had expected him to be there, but her heart still leaps at the sight of him. He stands as they put away the horses.

“Hey, honey,” she says, rising on her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. He smiles at that the way he always does, like it’s the last thing he thought she’d do. “These look beautiful. Let me get them into water and go change, and then we can do… whatever you’ve got planned?”

“What you’re wearing is fine,” he says, which—she’s in riding pants and a sweaty, dusty blouse, so that throws her for a bit of a loop, but okay. She can do casual.

“Alright,” she laughs, plucking a primrose from the bouquet and tucking it behind her ear. “Elsa, do you mind…?”

“Not at all; I’ll put them in your room,” Elsa says, taking the flowers with a smile. “Have a good time.”

“Shall we?” Kristoff asks, offering Anna his arm, and they head off into the summer-light night.

* * *

They end up at Hudson’s Hearth, Kristoff sheepishly explaining how he realized they’ve never actually been on a normal, run-of-the-mill date before. One where they go somewhere in town to eat and talk, and he pays for dinner, and he knows in advance exactly how many forks there are going to be and what they’re for (one, and eating).

They slide into a booth towards the back across from one another, and Anna immediately kicks her legs up to put her feet in his lap. He’s too far away to touch, otherwise.

“Your boots are on my napkin,” he points out neutrally, hiding a grin.

“Good thing I’m not trying to be ladylike, then,” she counters.

And she’s really not. She misses her mouth when trying to take a drink because she’s already laughing at a story he’s telling, and sloshes ale down her shirt. Rather than ordering one dessert to share, which is probably the romantic thing, she insists that they each get their own and then ends up eating all of hers and most of his, too. She’s halfway through completely kicking his ass at darts when two men she thinks she vaguely recognizes approach—one looking very determined, and the other sheepishly pulling on the first’s arm saying “Lars, c’mon, don’t bother them…”

“Ah, jeez. Here comes trouble,” Kristoff sighs, but before she can ask him to elaborate, they’re no longer alone.

“So you’re Princess Anna, huh?” the first man asks, sounding deeply unimpressed. On instinct, Anna calls up her winningest smile.

“That’s me! And you are…?”

“Anna, this is Lars Jørgensen and Aleks Dahl. I harvest ice with them sometimes. Guys, this is Anna. We’re here on a _date_ for her _birthday._ ” Kristoff hits the words precisely, all but begging them to take the hint and scram, but Anna can already tell it won’t do any good.

Lars—the redhead—bursts out laughing. “And you couldn’t think of anywhere better to do it than _here?”_

“Hey!”

“Don’t feel bad, your Highness,” the bespectacled one, Aleks, says, and he gives her a grin that shows off some _very_ cute dimples. (She’s had two beers and she’s not blind, okay? Leave her alone.) “For my sixteenth birthday, Kristoff got us arrested. So this is definitely a step up.”

“That is _not_ what happened—”

“I mean. We did get arrested, and it was my birthday, so. It kind of is what happened.”

“There were a lot of steps in between!”

“Do I want to know this story?” Anna laughs. She laughs even harder when the two chorus _No!_ in accidental unison—Kristoff’s voice fervent, Aleks’ self-deprecatingly amused. “And please, just call me Anna.”

Lars elbows Aleks. “See? Told you she’d say that and your _Highness_ stuff would make you sound stupid. Just like Elsa.”

“You guys know Elsa?”

“We did lunch once,” Kristoff says in explanation, which only leaves Anna with many, many more questions.

Aleks examines the chalkboard where they’re keeping track of the score. “Since when are you good at darts?” he asks Kristoff, brow furrowing.

“I’m not; that’s Anna’s column.”

The boys howl with laughter, and Kristoff grumbles, and Anna beams. Aleks and Lars stick around to watch them finish the game, providing color commentary. Anna finds she doesn’t mind; the trash talk is funny, and they turn it around on her just as easily when Kristoff gets a few good throws in.

She wins by a mile, though, and the sun is still visible on the horizon when they bid their farewells and finally leave the tavern.

“What do you think?” Kristoff asks, offering her his arm once more. “Home, or do you want to walk around a little longer?”

“That depends,” she teases, biting her lip as she grins. “Is there a present waiting for me at home?”

The tips of his ears turn pink. “Um. Sort of.”

“Sort of? What’s a ‘sort of’ present?” she wonders aloud, and he blushes harder. She realizes what he’s inferring. “Oh. _You’re_ my present.”

“Only—it’s whatever you want,” he shrugs, trying to play it casual. Like he could go either way about it.

She can already feel the arousal pooling low in her body.

“Then let’s go home.”

* * *

Anna knows what she wants long before they finish the walk back to the castle. As soon as the door to her bedroom closes behind the two of them, she makes a beeline for her vanity. Elsa’s put the flowers Kristoff got her there on the desk—Anna pauses just long enough to pluck the primrose from her hair and place it back with the others—but it’s not what she’s here for.

The blindfold is exactly where she’d left it, tucked away in her middle drawer.

She entwines it slowly between her fingers, giving herself a second while her back’s still turned to take a few deep breaths. This feels… big. She’s not quite nervous—this is hardly the first time they’re having sex in here since the renovation—but they haven’t really done _this,_ lately. Where the whole point of it is she’s in charge. Summer is busy in the castle, and time hasn’t been on their side. It’s hard to sneak around and find moments alone.

Tonight, though, she’s going to take all the time she wants.

“Anna?”

“Clothes off, please,” she says softly, turning around, and Kristoff strips where he stands without comment. His garments fall to the floor atop the rug they picked out together.

His chest, she notes, is totally healed, now—has been for a while. She drinks in the blank slate of him; savors the knowledge that there’s no part of his body she can’t touch. Hers. His present to her.

“Help me out of this?” It’s hardly an outfit she needs assistance with, but he smirks and unbuttons the front of her blouse slowly, trailing kisses down her chest as he goes. She shimmies out of her trousers, and before long the only scrap of fabric to be found between the two of them is the blindfold, still wound around her fingers.

“Tell me what you want,” Kristoff breathes, nuzzling his nose against hers. “Anything you want.”

A shiver runs down her spine at his tone. She kisses him, once. “On the bed. And then I’ll put this on you.”

They climb onto the mattress together, Kristoff sitting and Anna getting onto her knees to make herself taller than him. She winds and knots the blindfold around his head with care, watching for any signs of anxiety or discomfort.

All she sees is that he’s already hard.

“All good?”

“Very comfortable; totally in the dark,” he reports dutifully.

“And what are you?”

“Yours,” he says, not even thinking about it. _Fuck._ The answer shoots straight between her legs; she bites her lip.

“That’s—that’s good,” she stammers, a little taken aback. “But I meant what color?”

“Oh. Green.” He’s laughing a little as he says it, like _come on, at least ask me a hard one._

“Good. Great. I’m going to touch your shoulders,” she announces, then does so, running her palms appreciatively along the curves of his delts and down his biceps. The hair on his forearms stands up at her touch. “This is—a really good present,” she tells him.

He smiles sweetly. “We haven’t even done anything yet.”

“Still. I just…” She wants to thank him, but it sounds unbelievably cheesy in her head. What’s she even thanking him for? Letting her? Wanting her to? He’s right to laugh; it’s not like this part’s such a hardship. “Anyway. Would you lay down and spread your legs for me? I’m—I’ve wanted to get my mouth on you all night.”

“Okay, Anna,” he says, and she can hear the way he’s struggling to keep his voice from cracking as he eases onto his back and makes room for her.

“I might take my time,” she warns.

“It’s yours to take,” he assures her. “Your birthday. Whatever you want. Can I touch you?”

“Mm. Soon, but not yet,” she decides, then moves her way down his body, admiring the sight of him.

He really is just—breathtakingly proportional.

She brings a hand up to brush lightly through the thick hair of his treasure trail and points south, enjoying the way even that slightest amount of pressure makes him squirm beneath her. You’d never guess by looking at him just how sensitive he is, but—she gets to guess. She gets to _know._ Her hands run up and down his muscular legs; she presses kisses into the crease of his thigh, the v of his Adonis belt. Inhales the addictive scent of him. Exhales hotly, so the feel of her breath through the hair of his groin makes him shudder.

 _“Fuck,_ Anna.”

She glances up, eyeing the way he’s fisting at the sheets to keep his hands occupied. She really had intended to draw this out, and a part of her still wants to, but—he’s already leaking, and she’s barely touched him. And she can only be so patient putting off something she wants desperately herself.

She has all night to tease him later, if she wants.

“Hold still for me, handsome.”

He nods.

She licks a stripe up from the bottom of his length, following the vein, then tongues at his slit before drawing him into her mouth. She knows how to take him deep, now, though she can’t do it for very long: how to slacken her jaw and relax her throat and moderate her breathing until he’s filling her completely, down to the root. It’s not her favorite part of this process, but she finds herself allured by the challenge of it. It’s—wretched, honestly, yet undeniably compelling. The way they have each other trapped, each owned and owning. Choking on him—his feel and girth the only thing she can think about—and knowing for certain that she’s all he can think about, too. Hearing the noises it draws out of him through the pounding rush in her ears.

She pulls off of him with a cough when she can’t stand it anymore, self-consciously wiping at the drool at the corner of her mouth before she remembers he can’t see it.

“You okay?” he asks, and she rubs affectionately at the jut of his hipbone with her thumb. “Did I—was that—”

“I’m great,” she assures him, though her voice is considerably raspier than it was a few minutes ago. “I’m great, you did great, c’mere—”

This is the part she loves. Just mouthing at him, the velvety feel of his skin under her tongue contrasted against how hard he is. Lazily jacking the base of his cock with her hand while she sucks at the head, making him whimper and moan and get this tortured, dreamy look on his face—brow drawn tight with concentration, mouth slack and smiling with pleasure. The way he tastes. She doesn’t need him to say anything to know how close he is, just from this; it might as well be written all over his body. And he’s being so good for her, quivering with the effort to keep his hips still, fingers tangled in the bedding.

It makes her want to reward him.

She reaches out with her free hand to grab at one of his wrists, pulling it forward and guiding it to her face. Usually, he loves to watch her do this; while that’s off the table, maybe she can give him the next best thing. She opens his fisted hand with her thumb and places his palm against her cheek, then tilts her head as she bobs down to take him a little further in. The resulting jerk of his body and fervent cursing as he feels the shape of himself moving in her mouth is so satisfying she has to pull off, grinning wickedly.

“That okay?” she asks, trying and failing to make her voice sound innocent.

“No. Yes.” He huffs out a frustrated laugh at his ineloquence, then clarifies: “Not if you want me to last.”

“Ah. That’s alright then,” she says. She kisses the tip, making him jerk and curse once more, then teases him with her tongue as she closes her lips around him.

She wants this; wants the rush that comes with knowing just a few short minutes with her is all it takes to unravel him completely. It’s a heady ego boost, and worth any wait that may come later. Besides, it’s still early enough in the evening that she’s sure he can get hard again before they’re through.

She digs her nails into his backside, encouraging him to thrust up into her if he needs to, but he stays stubbornly still, panting with the effort of holding back. The biggest downside to this is the way she can’t talk as she does it, so she reluctantly pulls off one last time:

“Kristoff, it’s okay. Fuck my mouth, I want it, I want you to. Come for me. Let me have it.”

He lets out a strangled moan as she swallows him back down, daring herself to take him deep once more. His hips shift timidly, once, twice, and then he’s coming as he hits the back of her throat. Tears spring to her eyes as she gulps around him, desperate, choking, she can’t _breathe,_ and then he’s gone and she feels hollow for the lack of him, that vaguely bitter seawater-and-copper-coins flavor lingering on her tongue.

“Sorry,” he gasps, like he didn’t just do exactly what she asked of him. “Shit, did I hurt you?”

“No, you were perfect,” she croaks, and—oh, wow, is that really what she sounds like right now? “That was perfect.”

“Me? You’re the one who… It’s like you don’t even _know…_ ” He laughs, like he’s not sure what to make of her; what to do with her. “It’s your birthday. Don’t you want…?”

She doesn’t particularly feel the need to get off at the moment, but it’s still a fair question. Now what? What _does_ she want?

It doesn’t take long to find an answer. “Right now, I want you to roll over for me, and I’m going to go grab something from my desk. Okay? Arms loose by your head.”

That merchant from Maldonia had been selling massage oils in the market, among all the other products. Anna had been too freaked out at the time to purchase any, but she’s got some moisturizing creams that should work nearly as well. She grabs the first jar she sees and returns to the bed.

Kristoff’s spread out prone, breathing deeply. She pauses to admire the divots and musculature of his back; the swell of his ass. Gorgeous. So handsome.

“So—a little backstory, I guess. When you got back from that harvesting trip from hell,” she murmurs in explanation, swinging a leg over him to straddle his waist, “all I’d wanted to do was to give you a massage. To try and take away all that pain and stress. And I couldn’t do it then, and—well, I guess it worked out eventually, but—um. I’d like to do it now. Does that sound alright to you?”

She can hear the amusement in his groan. “Yes, Anna. Somehow I’ll live if you give me a massage, you unrelenting monster.”

“Okay, okay, laugh it up. And brace yourself, this might feel a little slimy at first.”

It feels ridiculously satisfying to get her hands on him like this. To feel him go limp and lax as she digs in and twists, seeking out all the places he holds his stress. It’s a little different than she’d imagined; he hasn’t had to work lately and he’s been fairly relaxed, so his back isn’t the mess of knots it had been at the time. Still, she works him over with confident hands, easing him deeper into the mattress as she kneads away what tension he’s been carrying lately.

All that smooth skin, right at her fingertips. Unmarred and perfect.

_I liked when you did it. I like pretty much everything you do. You, uh. You can assume. Okay?_

She’s not going to assume, but—she can ask. She can be brave enough to ask, on her birthday.

“Kristoff.”

“Mmhmm?”

“Can I… um. If I wanted to scratch you, what color would that be?”

“Like at the hot spring?”

“Yeah.”

He takes long enough to answer that she ends up spewing an anxious “You know what? It’s silly, forget I asked” at the same exact moment that he finally responds “I’m just not sure you’ll believe me if I say green.”

Oh.

Well—he’s not wrong, actually. She’d expected a yellow; figured they’d have to set rules about how many or how hard or… something.

“I’ll believe you,” she whispers, and she wants to, she really wants to. “This doesn’t work if I don’t believe you, right?”

“Right.” He stretches out beneath her with an exaggerated yawn, like all of this is boring him. “So… go on then. Whenever you’re ready.”

She rolls her eyes. “Kristoff.”

“Do it. Make it so I still feel it in the morning. Make me—” She rakes her nails down his back, scapulae to sacrum, and whatever else was going to be in that sentence is swallowed up by a breathless hiss of pleasure.

His hips jolt beneath her, but she’s a little distracted by the way little pink lines are emerging in the wake of her fingers, raised and unmistakable.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Just like that.”

“More?”

“Green.”

She lets her whims guide her, alternating continuing the massage and scratching at him—sometimes hard and possessive, sometimes soft and teasing. Kristoff goes utterly loose under her hands, like she could stretch him apart like taffy if she wanted to. The urge to grind down against him becomes impossible to ignore when she realizes that all the movement she’s feeling isn’t just him nuzzling up into her ministrations, but his hips relentlessly rolling against the mattress. He’s half-hard again, seeking stimulation any way he can find it.

She can’t help it. “Enjoying yourself, handsome?” she teases, and his rocking stutters and stops beneath her.

“I—sorry—”

“I didn’t say stop,” she encourages, rubbing soothingly at the small of his back. “Go on, keep going. I want you to feel good. Do what works; don’t be shy. Chase it. I want to see you.”

“O-okay, Anna.”

She continues to babble praise and encouragement as he turns into a writhing mess between her legs, groaning at her every touch as he thrusts into the bedding. She’s not sure what she wants next—or rather, she wants _everything_ next, and doesn’t know how to choose. She wants to watch him come apart just like this and she wants to turn him over and ride him and she wants him to hold her down and take her but maybe the blindfold would need to come off for that and she doesn’t think she wants the blindfold to come off yet so maybe—

Belatedly, she realizes Kristoff’s saying her name, over and over.

“Sorry—what?”

“Please, I just. You smell so good, I want—let me eat you out, please, I’ll be so good, make it so good—”

“Wouldn’t you prefer to see for that?” she asks, laughing, but she stops as soon as she hears the next thing out of his mouth:

“Don’t have to if you sit on my face.”

Well. That’s.

She may be in charge, but she knows a good idea when she hears one.

“Turn over and scooch up; head on the pillows,” she says, the words out of her mouth before she can even really consider them.

Kristoff’s so eager to comply and so addled by the blindfold that he overshoots his target, accidentally knocking his skull against the headboard with a loud _thunk_ as he scrambles backwards. “Ow, what the—?”

“Oh, shoot, I’m so sorry,” she yelps, moving to cradle his head like that’s going to do anything for him now. He inhales sharply when her fingers brush against the area in question. “Yeah, that’s definitely going to be a goose egg.”

“It’s fine,” he says, lips pulling into a familiar grimace. “I’ve got a thick skull.”

“So I’ve heard,” she chuckles, running her fingers apologetically through his hair. “Are you dizzy? Should I get ice?”

“It’s going to take a lot more than your bed to do me real damage, Anna. It’s fine, it’s just gonna be tender for a bit. You have soft pillows. I’ll live.”

“Blindfold stays on?”

“Please.”

She sighs. “One of these days, we’ll manage to pull this off without bodily harm.”

The grimace turns into a smirk. “I hope not.”

“Fine. Without accidental mishaps, then.”

“Mmm, are you sure? Because last I checked, I’d still be having sex with _you,_ so—”

“Keep that up and you’re going to jinx yourself, buddy. I’m starting to worry I’m going to break your nose if we try this.”

“I promise to say red if I sense you’re in any danger of breaking my nose.”

“If I’m sitting on your face, how am I supposed to hear you?”

He opens his mouth to retort, then frowns. “That’s—fair point. Maybe… could you come up here so I can try something?”

She hesitantly crawls up the bed, placing her knees on either side of his shoulders. “Alright, I’m set.”

He runs his hands up her legs to orient himself, then gives a brisk two taps against her hip with his right hand. “Yellow.” Three taps. “Red. Does that work?”

“Sure. What’s green?”

His hands curve around her ass and squeeze. She bursts into giggles.

“Don’t know why I didn’t see that one coming.”

But now he’s invested, fingers kneading and caressing. “C’mon, birthday girl,” he murmurs, pulling her down towards his mouth. “Let me taste you.”

“Okay. I’m—okay.” She holds on tight to the headboard and lowers herself down, but she’s still not prepared for him to lick a stripe up her center. When he starts sucking at her clit, it’s all she can do to keep her legs from giving out beneath her. “Kr—Krist—”

Her jaw goes slack and she abandons trying to talk when the words insist on coming out as a garbled, incoherent moan. It’s like she can’t quite get her tongue to work; like her body can only care about one tongue at a time and it’s understandably chosen Kristoff’s to focus on, instead. Her eyes roll back and her hips grind down and it’s not even all that different from anything they’ve done before, except it _is;_ the angle and the pressure are distinctly, marvelously novel.

Slowly, she gains enough confidence in herself that she’s able to stop white-knuckling the headboard with both hands and lower one down to tug on his hair and bring him closer still. Too late, she remembers that he’d hit his head, his scalp is sensitive, she shouldn’t hurt him, only he’s moaning against her folds at the sensation and the vibrations reverberate up and through her, threatening to turn her knees to jelly. His fingertips press hard where he’s holding her steady, splayed wide across her hips—hard enough to leave bruises—and she cants into him wantonly at the idea, imagining the imprint of him there, the way he props her up. His strength, all over her, marking her. His tongue is inside her now, teasing and exploring, and she can feel herself starting to clench around him.

“Baby, I’m going to—I—” She doesn’t manage to get a full sentence out before she’s coming, fist tightening instinctively in his hair. Everything feels bright, and hot, and close, but he’s still moving, and she’s still moving, and at first she assumes he’s bringing her down but he’s not, this isn’t what it feels like when he does that. He’s—building her back up? There’s a greater pressure there, rising from deep inside of her, a crescendo, and he pursues it relentlessly until she’s orgasming a second time, scarcely minutes after the first. She needs to say something, needs to tell him to stop or maybe he just won’t, not ever, but the only noise she seems capable of making is a broken, high-pitched whine.

Eventually she simply can’t hold herself up anymore. She slides down and away from him until she’s perched awkwardly on his chest, her most sensitive parts safely out of the range of his beautifully swollen red mouth. She slumps until she can rest her head against her forearm on the headboard, trying desperately to catch her breath.

“What the fuck, Kristoff,” she gasps, when she finally has enough air to do so.

He frowns, and too late it dawns on her that he can’t see her face; that he has no idea that she’s beaming. “Not good?”

 _“Very_ good. Too good. I think you just killed me.” 

His expression clears. “You’re pretty talkative for a corpse.”

She laughs. “Yeah, that’s kind of my schtick.”

His hands trail slowly up her body until he finds her jaw and tenderly cups her cheeks. “I want to kiss you; can I?”

“Yeah, just, let me—” With effort, Anna unfolds herself from the awkward scrunch she’d been resting in and moves to lay down on top of him, draped so their bodies are flush. Her fingers bury themselves in his hair once more. “Better. Okay.”

The kiss is lazy, at first; unhurried. Anna can taste herself on his tongue, an experience she’d always wrinkled her nose at when she’d read about it in her books but now can’t get enough of. Kristoff kisses like an open door, accessible and inviting. _Come inside. Take what you want._ He’s hard between her legs but seems supremely unconcerned by it; she finds herself wondering idly if she could get him off this way, fucking her thighs without actually entering her. She definitely could, she thinks, if she wanted to. His hands rove gently up and down her back as they kiss, almost petting her; she melts into the touch, wishing there were a way for them to be somehow closer than they already are. Closer than close; deeper than touch.

It also makes her… curious.

“Kristoff.”

“Mm?”

“You, um. You could scratch too, you know.”

His hands still. “Do you want me to?”

She does and she doesn’t. She’s not sure she’s going to like it—not the same way he does, at any rate—but she does want to know. What it’s like.

“Yeah. Just once, maybe. Between my shoulder blades.”

“Hard?”

“Hard enough. Like you mean it.”

He doesn’t give her any warning. The words are barely out of her mouth before his nails are biting into her spine and _dragging,_ just a little; she hisses and arches into it. It hurts, obviously, but—not the way that stubbing her toe hurts, or how catching the end of her braid in the buttons of her coat hurts. It’s… it sinks in different, somehow, when you’ve asked for it. Not quite pleasure, but not quite pain either.

His mouth captures hers once more as he presses the flat of his palm down against the fresh marks, soothing their sting. “Again?” he asks, and it takes her a second to realize he’s asking about scratches, not kisses.

“I—yellow? Maybe later.”

He smirks—their teeth knock together awkwardly—and says “Okay, Anna.” And then neither of them say anything else for a long while.

She’s not really sure who starts it, but slowly the timbre of the kiss changes—the tempo increasing, their embrace becoming more passionate. Her hips have fallen back into that comfortable undulation against his stomach; a delicious, steady to-and-fro, even like a heartbeat. He just makes her feel so _good._ She bites at his bottom lip, drawing a needy whimper from the back of his throat.

“You’ve been so good for me, sweetheart; you’ve been so patient,” she hears herself say. It’s only now, as she’s started speaking, that she realizes she’s decided exactly what she wants. “Do you think you can be good for me just a little longer?”

“What can I—what do you need?” he asks, distracted by her mouth.

She nips at him again. “Well, a yes or a no, to start with.”

He chuckles. _“Yes,_ Anna. Yes. Anything. Tell me what you want.”

She leans up to press her forehead against his; she’ll never get the words out if she leaves her mouth within kissing distance. “I want you to hold me. I want you to pick me up and fuck me against the wall; I want to feel how strong you are. Can you do that for me?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, a little too enthusiastically, then clears his throat. “I mean. Yes. Anna.”

“Do you need me to take the blindfold off for that?”

“No, Anna.”

“Okay. C’mere, then, I’ll put you where I want you.”

It takes her a second to find her sea legs when she gets off the bed, but it’s not difficult to take Kristoff by the hand and guide him over to the spare patch of wall next to her wardrobe. They’re close enough to the bay window now that anyone could see them, if they were to look up. Anna’s curtains are wide open, the whole room blazing with the golden-orange light of a much-belated sunset.

Kristoff takes his time feeling around the wall and the space around them, making sure he knows how much elbow room he has. “Okay. Ready.”

She loops her arms around his neck, ready to jump into his arms when he hoists. The last time they did this, the water of the hot spring took most of her weight; she’s eager to be reminded just how much those muscles can do without help. But that reminds her—

“Oh, one more thing: you can go as fast as you want, but you don’t get to come until I do. Sound fair?”

“Very fair,” he laughs, and then he’s lifting her, and somehow, out of everything, the way the veins of his arms stand out as he holds her up is the most erotic thing she’s seen tonight.

She releases a shuddering sigh as he enters her, and tucks her face against his neck. “Go on, handsome,” she whispers into his ear. “Make me see stars.”

It’s a good thing there’s nothing on the other side of this wall except her ensuite, because if someone were to hear the rhythm of their bodies against it, the staff wouldn’t gossip about anything else for days. The rasp of the new wallpaper is gratifyingly rough against the scratches on her back; she digs her fingers into Kristoff’s shoulders at the thought, drawing a groan.

Her head falls back in bliss as he leans down to suck at her pulse point. There’s not a single part of her that’s touching the floor, and it’s—well—not that she’s usually on the _floor_ when they have sex, that’s not—it’s just—

Um. What was she thinking about, again?

She just feels so _full_ when he’s inside her like this; she moves as best she can to match his pace, meeting him thrust for thrust. Words fall from her mouth, frantic and unfiltered: _love you, so good, want it, show me._

 _Please._ A lot of _please._

Kristoff’s breathing has devolved into short, ragged gasps. “Shit, Anna, I can’t—I don’t know if I can—”

She blinks her eyes open, feeling like she’s been splashed with cold water at the unexpected trepidation in his voice. From head in the clouds to down to earth, just like that. “Can’t what? What’s your color, Kristoff?” she asks, cradling his jaw in her hands.

“I’m—I don’t know—I—”

He’s not supposed to not _know._ “Tell me what’s happening.”

“I don’t think I can do it, I don’t—I don’t have enough _hands,”_ he says, and she’d laugh except nothing about his tone makes this sound funny. “I’m so close and you’re not, I know you’re not, and I’d touch you but I can’t let you go and I’d do it one-handed but I can’t _see_ and I’m—”

All this because he doesn’t want to break a nonsense rule she just made up? “It’s okay, we can be yellow, we can—”

“But I _want_ to.”

Somehow, he hasn’t stopped moving in her; it makes it very hard to think. “Okay. In that case—I’ll help you. I’m going to touch myself, alright? We’ll get me there. You’ve got me, you’re doing so good. You can do this.”

He nods, shoulders loosening in relief. “Okay. Thank you.”

She snakes one hand down to rub at her clit. It’s—well it’s not like it feels _bad,_ or anything, but it’s suddenly hard to enjoy it. She feels rattled. She hadn’t meant to shake his confidence or make him doubt himself; this is supposed to be fun. And if she’s in charge, then she’s in charge of making sure he feels just as good as she does, isn’t she?

“But you know…” she says, thinking fast as she tries to brainstorm ways to recover the mood, “You’re so much better at this than I am, now. Maybe you should tell me what to do. What you’d do.”

“I—yeah?” he asks, sounding skeptical. They both know he’s not the wordsmith between the two of them once clothes come off.

“You don’t have enough hands, right? Let me be your hands. Tell me what you’d do. I want it to be you.”

He nips at her neck. “Okay, Anna.”

It’s like throwing oil on a flame. It’s not any one thing he says, really, more that—that it’s _Kristoff_ saying it, whispering absolutely filthy instructions in her ear. Just listening somehow feels a thousand times hotter than anything she’s actually doing to herself. Between the steady pound of his hips, the sound of his voice, and the work of her hand, it’s not long before she feels like she’s right on the precipice.

“Spell my name,” he murmurs, and she makes it as far as the O before she loudly tumbles over the edge, Kristoff following after her like’s he’s been waiting for ages for permission—which, she supposes, he has.

He holds her there, pinned to the wall, as they both catch their breath.

“Wow,” Anna pants, a thrilled giggle finding its way into her voice. “That was—you were—jeez. I’m just gonna…” With shaking fingers, she reaches up and pulls the blindfold off of him, letting it flutter to the floor. The amount of sheer adoration she sees reflected in those brown eyes is enough to leave her breathless all over again. “There you are.”

His cheeks color in a wordless _aw, shucks_ sort of way, which is patently ridiculous, given the circumstances. “Bed?” he asks.

“Bed,” she confirms.

And with that he swings her broadly around the room in his arms, making her shriek with laughter before depositing her back on the mattress and collapsing onto the bed beside her. Smiling softly, she reaches out to run her fingers through his hair, enjoying the way he keeps his eyes wide open, meeting her gaze. They stay like that a long moment, just drinking each other in.

She’s reluctant to break the quiet, but—it’s going to nag at her until she does.

“Can we talk about what just happened, there?”

His eyes dart away momentarily, guilty, before coming back to hers. “We don’t have to. But, yeah. If you want.”

“Do we… need to come up with a new color, maybe? Something for, like, ‘I like what’s happening but we need to rework the plan?’”

He sits up, shaking his head. “No, I don’t—I should figure it out or ask you. That shouldn’t be hard.”

“And in the moment, you did. I’m really glad you said something. But…” She sits up too, mirroring him. “I don’t know. You seemed kind of freaked out. Like you didn’t want to be caught making a mistake with the principal watching, or something. That’s not really the vibe I’m going for.”

He huffs out a breath, too non-committal to be called a laugh. “I wasn’t scared of you or anything. I was just… it’s your birthday. I didn’t want to let you down.”

“Isn’t that supposed to be part of it, though?”

He frowns. “What do you mean?”

“All the stuff we talked about at the cabin. The um,” she’s blushing now, still uncertain how she feels about using this particular word, “punishments. If I set a bar and you can’t reach it, I move the bar and we have fun doing that instead, until you feel like you’ve made it up to me or whatever. Right? Isn’t that… included?”

He picks at lint on her bedspread. “You also said hard limit, though,” he says softly. “And we haven’t really talked about it since.”

“I said hard limit to taking my anger out on you in bed when we’re arguing. You breaking some silly sex rule I make up on the spot—that’s not something I’m ever _actually_ going to be mad about,” she assures him, scooching over to bump her shoulder against his. “It’s just orgasms, Kristoff, it’s not life and death.”

“I guess,” he murmurs. She waits, staring at him, until he elaborates. “I dunno. It still feels like a me thing, not an us thing. Like… I don’t want you to have to put up with it, if you don’t want to.”

“Well I won’t know how well it works for me until we’ve actually had it happen a few times,” she says with a shrug. “From the way you talked about it, I thought you’d have been screwing up on purpose way before now. If only to watch me get all flustered trying to figure out what to do with you.”

His laugh is a little more genuine this time. “I’m not that much of a pain in the ass, am I?”

“Oh, don’t sell yourself short. You’re a tremendous pain in the ass, handsome. A grumpy old pill.”

He leans into her, threading the fingers of their adjacent hands. “What would you have done? If… if I had broken the rule, just now?”

“Not much of anything until you’d managed to get me off, probably,” she chuckles. “Then… I dunno. No idea. Made you do push-ups?”

 _That_ draws a proper laugh. “What?”

“I like looking at your muscles! I don’t know, it’s the first thing I thought of. We’d figure it out. My point is, I don’t need you to be perfect for me.”

“Since when?” he asks, and though his voice is light and teasing, it hits her like a punch to the gut.

_I just want one perfect thing. Is that so wrong?_

When did that stop being the case?

She bites her lip. “I guess… perfect sounds kind of boring compared to what I’ve got.”

“A pain in the ass, grumpy old pill?”

“Exactly,” she says, kissing his cheek. “Total dreamboat.”

The world’s finally gone dark outside her window. She hops up to close her curtains, nodding her chin towards the pillows as she returns to the bed. Kristoff lifts up the covers, and they curl up together at the head of the bed.

“I mean it, you know,” he whispers, nuzzling into her hair. “You don’t scare me.”

“Well duh,” she giggles, rolling her eyes. “You’re as big as three of me. I’m not exactly intimidating.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” he counters, warmth in his voice. “But seriously, Anna. I—you make me feel… safe. It’s not a thing I ever got to be used to, before. It means a lot to me.”

There’s a lot she’d like to say to that, but the words don’t feel big enough. So she kisses him instead, the fierce feeling roaring powerfully in her chest.

She means to stay up and talk about this more, to find the words, but now that she’s horizontal it’s suddenly hard to keep her eyes open. Maybe a day spent horseback riding followed by marathon sex will do that to a person. She watches Kristoff’s face closely, checking for the furtive glances he sometimes throws towards the door when she falls asleep before him, like maybe he should make a break for it while he can to avoid the risk of being caught in the morning, but there’s none of that tonight. Just drowsy smiles and warm arms holding her close.

“Mm. Too hot,” she whines, and he moves to inch away from her. “Not _you,_ the blanket.” He chuckles and throws it off of them, leaving them with just the sheet.

“Better?”

“Much.”

“I love you,” he says as she burrows deeper into his side.

“Love you too.”

“Good birthday?”

“Bes’ birthday ever,” she mumbles sleepily against his shoulder.

If he says anything else, she’s no longer awake to hear it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we endeth the first story arc! V exciting.
> 
> Chapter title from "I Love You Always Forever" by Donna Lewis. As ever, please do reach out and leave a comment if you enjoyed; hearing from you all is the absolute highlight of my week.


	16. it’s me who makes the monsters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for unwanted sex dreams, moderate PTSD symptoms, and irresponsible alcohol consumption (resulting in vomiting, if that's a no-go for you).
> 
> If reading (dream!) explicit sexual content involving Anna with a non-Kristoff partner (HOVER OVER TEXT FOR CHARACTER CONFIRMATION) is gonna bother you, skip the section in italics.

She’s created a monster.

Apparently, the lack of one post-coital conversation had been the only thing stopping Kristoff from becoming the world’s biggest brat in the bedroom. And now that they’ve _had_ that conversation, he’s been having a ball testing limits and pushing Anna’s buttons—going slow when she says fast, soft when she says hard. Distracting her with his hands when she’s told him not to touch. So she finds ways to make him pay for it: on his own, upside-down, tied up. She tries everything she can think of, her so-called punishments (as promised) often even more enjoyable for the both of them than whatever she’d originally planned.

She’s never had quite this much fun in her life. Being with Kristoff. Being in charge.

Which is why the dream is so disorienting.

_It’s hard to notice anything, at first, past how **good** she feels._

_Even tied up as she is, hands and feet hitched fast to the four corners of the bed frame, she feels just as pinned down by pleasure as she does the restraints keeping her still and the pressure of his arm braced across her stomach as he eats her out. He’s unfairly good at this, all wicked tongue and clever mouth—but he’s teasing her, keeping his ministrations swift and feather-light. She wants more than anything to fist her hands in his hair and encourage him closer; for him to actually commit. As it is, all she can do is strain against her bindings and do her best to grind against his face—as much as he’ll let her, the way he’s holding her hips down._

_She can feel him smirk against her. “Want something?” he murmurs._

_She knows this trap. Admitting what she’d like him to do is just about the last way to get him to do it; there’s nothing he enjoys more than stringing her along with almosts and not-quites, always keeping her teetering just at the edge of satisfaction. It drives her crazy; she feels out of her mind with need. Still, she bites her lip and shakes her head. She can be good. She can take what he’s giving her._

_“That’s my girl. You’re such a slut for it, aren’t you?”_

_She moans, unable to stop herself from writhing to try and get friction where she needs it._

_“Good point,” he taunts, mocking her incoherence. “And to think you lay down the law around here—you sure you’ve got any thoughts at all in that pretty little head of yours?”_

_“Hans, please,” she begs, and he looks up at her, green eyes sparkling sharply._

_“Say it again.”_

**_“Please,”_ ** _she repeats, voice thin with desire._

_He blows on her overheated flesh, making her whole body jolt with unexpected sensation. How does he **do** that? “Please what?”_

_“Make me—” No. “Let me—let me come. Please.”_

_“Well, since you asked so nicely,” he says. And then he buries himself intently between her legs, the wiry hair of his sideburns scratching deliciously against her inner thighs, until she screams her release._

“Anna? Anna!”

Anna startles awake, unsure at first of where she is or what’s going on. She was—she’d felt—but that—

Wait, _what?_

Belatedly, she blinks into the realization that she’s in her own bed, naked and tangled in the sheets, panting. Kristoff’s next to her, arms over his head in a way that can’t be comfortable. None of this makes sense.

“Huh?” she manages to say, as if he could explain it to her.

“You were crying out in your sleep. Were you having a nightmare?”

It suddenly occurs to her that he’s posed like that because he’s still tied to her bedpost from the night’s earlier activities. She blanches, flustered. That’s—she can’t believe they fell asleep like that. It’s not safe! Not for his circulation, and, admittedly, not for _them:_ though the odds are slim anyone would barge into Anna’s room without knocking, the exception to that rule is _Olaf,_ and the last thing she wants is for him (or anyone else) to find Kristoff in such a compromising position. How could she be so careless?

_You sure you’ve got any thoughts at all in that pretty little head of yours?_

“Anna, seriously. You look as though you’ve seen a ghost,” Kristoff says, dragging her back to the here and now.

She scrambles into action. “Sorry, I’m sorry,” she babbles, finally moving to untie him. Her hands are sleep-clumsy, fingers numb with shock; it takes several tries to slip the simple knot. When it’s done, she sits back on her haunches. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Couldn’t exactly leave,” he points out mildly as he rubs at his now-freed wrists, and she winces.

“I can’t—that’s never happened before, I don’t—” But he knows that already; he’s been there with her every single time. That’s sort of the whole point.

“Sweetheart, hey,” he soothes, reaching out and bracing her shoulders with his hands. Normally she finds that move grounding; now, it makes her skin crawl. She doesn’t deserve it. The amount of concern in his eyes makes her want to shrivel up and die. “It’s fine. Nothing bad happened. Talk to me; what’s got you so spooked?” And she almost tells him—she really, almost does—but then he keeps going, and says the best worst possible thing: “It’s coming up on a year since everything happened. It’s only natural if you’re having bad dreams again.”

And he’s right; bad dreams _would_ be natural. But this…? She’d never even had dreams like that back when she was calling Hans her true love.

What is _wrong_ with her?

But Kristoff’s still talking, still looking at her with that painfully soft look on his face. “Was it Hans? Elsa? The ice?”

She doesn’t want to lie to him. She can’t possibly tell him the truth.

“Can we not talk about it?” she mumbles, fighting the urge to hide her face in her hands. “It’s embarrassing.” That, at least, is true enough.

“If that’s what you want,” he murmurs, though she can tell he’s not thrilled about it—less because he’s curious for details, if she had to guess, and more because it’s unlike her not to share them. He glances at the grandfather clock in the corner; they’ve still got about two more hours before sunrise. “I can stay a little longer, if you’d like?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t think I’ll be able to relax knowing we’ve got a time limit. Better not risk it. I—are your wrists alright?”

“Fine. Don’t worry about me,” he says, pressing a kiss to her forehead before slipping out of bed and digging around for his discarded clothes.

“I’m sorry I…” The words turn to ashes in her throat; she chokes on them. “I didn’t mean to leave you like that.”

“No harm done,” he says, before pausing at her bedroom door. The look he gives her is agonizingly fond. “Try and get some sleep.”

Well. She _tries._ But for the next few nights, she falls pretty short of success.

* * *

The thing is—the thing is, she _has_ been having nightmares about Hans, lately. Proper nightmares. In truth, she never really stopped; they’d just gotten fewer and farther between for a while. The sex dreams getting mixed in are new, but they aren’t exactly a reprieve—they make her feel just as awful upon waking.

She knows—in an abstract, unconvincing sort of way—that she’s not in control of what she dreams, and it doesn’t necessarily mean anything. If all her dreams came true or were indicative of her deepest desires, she’d live in a candy house and Olaf would be five inches tall so she could carry him around on her shoulder. But it still disturbs her. How much her body enjoys the dreams, despite her mind’s horror at the way they play out. How it’s never about just being with Hans, but about being at his mercy, every time.

(And of course, it makes sense. Hans and Kristoff couldn’t be more different—there’s no way Hans would ever let her be _in charge_. Not the real Hans, anyway. But when she thinks about the version of him she’d agreed to marry—the affably transparent open door, the one who made her feel seen and known, and convinced her she’d understood the core of him within two hours of their acquaintance—she can’t help but wonder what would have happened to her, to them, if Elsa let them run away together. How would he have treated her then? Would she have found a way to be happy? It’s the only explanation she has for this Venn diagram Hans of her dreams: domineering but not heartless, impish and taunting but attentive, however selfishly, to her consent and her pleasure.

And what frightens her most is that the whole scenario doesn’t feel all that farfetched, when she wakes sweat-drenched and breathless. It feels… disturbingly viable.

It feels like cheating.

Not on Kristoff, exactly, but on herself—on the person she’s become. Thinking back to those early days with Kristoff, and how much encouragement and coaching she’d needed to feel confident enough to take the reins… under Hans’s influence, she could have gone down an opposite path entirely. How far could she have walked down that road before she wasn’t herself anymore?

And worse: would she have even noticed?)

She knows what to do with the violent dreams, the ones filled with darkness and ice and betrayal; knows how to seek comfort when she’s frightened. But what does she do with _this?_

Maybe, she decides, the methods are the same after all. Following the regular nightmares, the trick is to remind herself of what’s real: that she’s safe, and loved, and still living. To appreciate and accept what she has.

It’s not hard, really, to appreciate and accept Kristoff. It’s certainly not hard to want him, or to find opportunities to take tiny pieces of her power back.

But the project might, admittedly, _maybe_ be making her a little reckless.

“Anna, c’mon,” Kristoff mumbles, half-nervous and half-thrilled as she drags him by his suspenders around the back outer wall of the stable and pins him there. “Someone’s going to see us.”

“Maybe you should have considered that as a potential consequence before you broke the rule,” she counters. (She’d _told_ Kristoff to stop playing footsie with her as he’d driven her through the market, after all. And if she’d told him that knowing it would only spur him to do the opposite; that it would get her all riled up, and give her an excuse to rile him somewhere semi-public right back as retribution… well. She’s not exactly a mystery to him, these days, and she’s certain he knew what he was signing up for.) She kisses him as she paws at his shirt. “Take this off.”

He smirks against her mouth. “Or what?”

“Or I stop,” she says simply, and he laughs and moves to shrug his suspenders off. She reaches up to halt the movement of his hands—enamored of the way his arms still at the gentle pressure of her small fingers around his massive wrists. “Not these,” she clarifies. She likes the way the suspenders give her convenient grips to manhandle him with _far_ too much to give them up. “Just the shirt.”

He rolls his eyes but complies, swiftly unbuttoning the shirt and slipping it out from under the suspenders. “Okay, now what?”

“Hands on me, please.”

“And drop the shirt? Right next to where I muck the stalls? No way.”

“Mm, it does sound complicated. It also sounds like a you-problem, though,” she teases, yanking him down to her height with the suspenders before pressing her splayed palms eagerly against his bare chest.

“Well there’s an idea,” he murmurs, draping his shirt across her shoulders like a cape—it dwarfs her—and then using the sleeves to pull her still closer. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

It feels a little silly how much just this, just kissing, can still get to her. She loses herself in the rhythm of it, the softness of his mouth, the strength of his muscles under her hands. _This_ is what she’s needed. All she’s ever needed, really, and a reminder of just how good she has it, to boot.

The clatter of a bucket hitting the ground and sloshing water everywhere pulls her back to reality.

“Sorry!” Niklas, one of the stable boys, yelps from the doorway. His face is bright red; his hands still hover in the air as though he hasn’t quite realized he dropped his pail. “Sorry, so sorry, Highness, I’ll—” Niklas turns around and bolts, leaving the discovered duo blinking and embarrassed in his wake.

They last three seconds before breaking into hysterical, nervous laughter.

“Okay. That one was my fault,” Anna admits through her shrill giggles. “I’ll go talk to him before he ends up telling half the castle."

“Would he?” Kristoff asks, nose wrinkling _._ “Nikki’s a good kid; he never struck me as a gossip.”

“No, he’s no gossip. He’ll just ask everyone for advice on how he could have handled it better, because he _wants_ to be discreet—”

“—and the story will get around all the same,” Kristoff finishes, catching on. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Right.”

Anna apologetically pecks him on the cheek, lighting up when, as it always does, it brings a mystified little smile to his face. “Thanks for playing anyway, handsome,” she sighs, shrugging his shirt off and hanging it back to him. “Maybe next time.”

“Is that a promise or a threat?” he calls after her as she walks away, hips swaying teasingly, and she ducks her head to hide her grin.

That’s better.

* * *

After tracking Niklas down and explaining everything to him (though, looking back on her elaborate, somewhat-convoluted metaphor about how butterflies are happy even though they’re silent, she may not have been as clear as she’d intended), she ends up playing hide-and-seek with Olaf for almost an hour. He’s better at hiding than anyone followed by a perpetual storm cloud has a right to be, and her search during round three brings her past Elsa’s open office door on the second floor.

“You haven’t seen Olaf, have you?” Anna asks, sticking her head in, but something about the way Elsa’s posed by the window gives her pause, even as Elsa shakes her head. At first Anna thinks it’s the wistfulness in Elsa’s expression, but then she realizes it’s the outfit: Elsa’s wearing their mother’s old scarf, wrapped around her shoulders like a shawl. Which wouldn’t be weird, just novel, except for the part where it’s _July._ Anna blinks. “Elsa, are you… cold?”

“Huh? No. Just thinking,” Elsa murmurs, reflexively tightening her fists where they’re gripping the scarf before catching herself, taking a deep breath, and letting it slip from her shoulders so she can fold it carefully. It’s pretty classic Elsa behavior, only now that Anna’s thinking about it for more than about three seconds, she can’t believe how dense she’s been. If the looming anniversary of Elsa’s coronation has been weighing on _Anna_ this much, how could Elsa not be torturing herself over it?

Anna steps into the room fully, closing the door only most of the way behind her—not wanting Elsa to feel trapped. “Whatcha thinking about?”

A shadow of a smile steals over Elsa’s face. “What new excuses I can make for why my kid sister keeps getting caught debauching our Ice Master and Deliverer.”

Anna cringes. So much for the butterfly thing. “Nikki blabbed, huh?”

The tucked-in, private smile Elsa’d been hiding turns into a full-on smirk. “Nikki? I was talking about Gemma and Prudence,” she laughs, referring to two notoriously-chatty women on Gerda’s staff. “They had quite a lot to say about Kristoff’s—” Anna turns bright red in anticipation of whatever body part is about to come out of Elsa’s mouth; to her relief, it’s “—back.”

Anna swallows past her chagrin, because she knows full well that Elsa’s deflecting the initial question. “Well at least they have taste. But seriously, what were you thinking about?” She nods towards the chaise longue in the corner, taking a seat and patting the cushion beside her. “Crazy to think it’s been almost a year, huh? Since everything?”

Elsa perches delicately on the edge of the chaise, then reaches up to tug on a lock of Anna’s hair—the one that had been white for most of her life. “Has it been on your mind, lately?”

Deflecting again. “No more than yours,” Anna says stubbornly, and Elsa huffs out a defeated little breath Anna generously labels a laugh.

“Alright, alright. I suppose it would be strange if I _weren’t_ thinking about it, right?”

Anna grins, relieved to have gotten through the necessary song and dance of convincing Elsa she’s allowed to state her feelings out loud so quickly. “Exactly.” She looks around the room. “You don’t seem to be brainstorming anymore,” she notes, pride winding itself into her voice.

Elsa grimaces. “You should see my bedroom.”

Oops. Spoke too soon. “You could have told me. Have you… been losing control a lot?”

“No, not—well. Not when I’m awake. Only when I dream,” Elsa admits, trying to play it off with a shrug.

Anna bites the inside of her lip, not sure how she’ll answer if Elsa turns this one back on her: “What do you dream about?”

The temperature in the room dips along with Elsa’s expression. “You can imagine, I’m sure. Running away. Making it winter again. What would have happened if you hadn’t… if the magic hadn’t…”

Anna drops her hand atop Elsa’s where it’s resting on the couch, squeezing her fingers. “I’m alright,” she murmurs, reminding herself just as much as her sister. “And you’re doing a great job. You know that, don’t you? Arendelle’s thriving. The people love you. _We_ love you.”

Elsa’s mouth twists, pleased and trying not to show it. “I know. It’s just…” She sighs. “Some days it feels less like that’s true because I’ve succeeded, and more like I’ve gotten away with something and everyone is just… temporarily letting me. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Anna winces in understanding. She’s had it, too—the feeling like she’ll wake up one morning and the universe will go _Wait, were you under the impression you could have nice things? Sorry, I just hadn’t gotten to you yet. There were back-ups in the office, you know how it is. All this was a loaner; didn’t you read the paperwork before you signed?_

Resisting the urge to repeat herself, she tries a slightly different tack: “I’m always around, if you want to get this stuff off your chest. It’s not good to keep it all bottled up.”

“I don’t,” Elsa says—then, off Anna’s incredulous face, laughs and points behind her with her thumb. “I _don’t._ I tell Papa.”

Anna startles—she can’t remember the last time Elsa called their father _Papa_ in her hearing, and the familiarity of it is discordant in her ear. She looks over her shoulder, at the large coronation portrait of Agnarr that dominates the eastern wall, and… look. She’s pretty much the last person to tell anyone that talking to paintings isn’t an effective therapy technique, and she _loves_ their father, she does, but she can’t help the way her nose wrinkles. “You tell Mr. Conceal-Don’t-Feel up there how you feel?”

“Be fair,” Elsa chides mildly, though Anna thinks her statement of literal fact was, uh, pretty fair. “And, yes. I’ve been thinking a lot, lately, about the advice he gave me—about the things he actually said, versus the things I let myself hear. So much of it was… I frightened _myself._ I was so certain that I was dangerous that I didn’t understand him when he was kind; I didn’t trust that he could have possibly meant it, so I twisted his words until they suited my worldview better. He wasn’t perfect, I know he wasn’t, but… he wasn’t my jailer, Anna. I was. In the ways it really mattered. He… he asked me so many questions, then. I’m trying to answer them honestly now.”

Unbidden, the memory of catching her father begging Runeard’s portrait in the gallery for parenting advice springs to mind—and with it, countless memories of jabbering at the paintings for hours as a child, with no other company to talk to. She feels a sharp ache in her heart at the thought of so many generations of her family feeling so lost without one another.

“Does it help?” she asks. “With the nightmares?”

Elsa nudges her with her shoulder. “Well, it’s no _waking up in the arms of my true love,_ I suppose, but yes. It helps.”

Anna blushes, both at the innuendo and at the implicit comparison of their respective hang-ups. Here Elsa’s been wrestling with _real_ dilemmas, about—about leadership, and identity, and their past—and all Anna’s been able to focus on are the hypothetical implications of a love triangle she was never really in. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she sniffs, trying to save face.

“That’s odd, because half the staff certainly does.”

“Okay, okay! I get it. I haven’t exactly been living up to my birthday bargain to you.”

Elsa’s expression softens. “I don’t say it to be cruel. I _do_ wish you’d be careful, but—what you and Kristoff have, it’s precious. It means a lot to me.”

Anna stares at her shoes, ears burning. “Yeah? And what do we have, exactly?”

Elsa takes her time before answering. “I… I’d like to think you have each other, I suppose. An understanding. Maybe that sounds silly. But looking back on the year we’ve had…” Elsa reaches for her hands and squeezes them. “To see you go from ready to settle for the first option that came along, to actually _settled,_ growing into yourself as you are… I’m so _proud_ of you. Of both of you. And when I see you together, it helps me remember what’s possible. That you did find someone special, when you were actually ready for it.”

Tears swim in Anna’s eyes; she blinks them away quickly. She knows Elsa intended it to be a compliment and nothing more, but—she can’t unhear the longing, the hope for a different future, in her sister’s voice. _“Elsa…_ ”

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. You asked.”

“I just—I wish—” Elsa’s never been like Anna; has never been prone to flights of fancy or addicted to fairy tale romance. Anna knows that; knows that was Elsa’s nature even before she cut herself off from other people on purpose. But you don’t say a thing like that unless you’d like someone of your own, and you’ve had to develop your patience. Unless you think about it all the time.

_A reminder that things take time,_ Elsa had said, when she’d given Kristoff their grandfather’s watch.

Elsa smiles, her soft, sad smile, and nods. “It’s only been a year. I mean—” She laughs, looking around the room, at all the work she has to do. “I can’t believe it’s been only a year, and it’s been the longest year of my life, but. It’s not very long, is it?”

Anna thinks of the long stretch of years with Elsa behind closed doors; of the fact that she can still recall the precise pattern of hazel that haloed Hans’s pupils, despite not having locked eyes with him in twelve months.

“Not very long at all,” she agrees. She’s about to say more when Olaf’s voice drifts down the hallway and through the open door.

“Anna? Did you forget whose turn it was? I’m supposed to be hiding, not you!” Then, as an aside to what she can only imagine is one of the suits of armor lining the halls. “She’s so silly like that.”

“In here, Olaf! You’re right, I lost track of our game,” she says, grinning at Elsa as they stifle their giggles.

* * *

The conversation sticks with her.

What they need, Anna thinks, is a reset. Something that will get all of them out of dwelling in the past and into remembering everything that’s so great about their present; a celebration of how far they’ve come. And wouldn’t you know it, but Arendellian tradition actually acknowledges exactly this—it’s been customary for generations to throw a First Year’s Ball. She and Elsa had decided mutually after the spring summit not to bother, but now she’s thinking maybe her ancestors had the right idea after all. They could all use a good time about now.

Unfortunately, she happens to live with not one but two hopeless introverts. What to do, when the people you most want to elevate are happier when their feet are firmly on the ground?

Especially when they’d probably have a _really good time_ if they just got over themselves?

So digs in her heels, and presses her luck.

_“Another_ ball? I don’t know, Anna…” Elsa sighs, and Anna puts on her most convincing grin over breakfast.

“It’s tradition! The reigning monarch always throws a First Year’s Ball. And it doesn’t have to be a whole ‘nother international hoopla—”

_Hoopla?_ Elsa mouths at Kristoff, lips tilting up in a smirk. He guffaws; Anna sticks her tongue out at her.

“—It can just be a casual thing. We can open up the castle to the villagers, play some music. It’ll be intimate. Homey. Maybe get a local band—ooh, Kristoff could play lute—”

“Kristoff will do no such thing,” Kristoff informs them, not even bothering to look up from his pancakes.

“—and we’d have a good time! Why does nobody in this castle but me want to have a good time?” Anna pouts.

“I want to have a good time!” Olaf pipes up.

“Thank you, Olaf,” Anna says, high-fiving him. (Or—is it a high-four, when it’s Olaf?)

“It’s just so much to-do over nothing,” Elsa insists. “I don’t need all of that attention on me, when all I’ve done is manage to stay alive, unmarried and out of war for a year.”

Anna sees an opening, and she takes it. “Well it wouldn’t be on _you,_ ” she says, like it’s obvious.

Elsa narrows her eyes—sensing, surely, that Anna is springing a trap but not quite able to tell what it is. “Alright, I’ll bite. It wouldn’t?”

“Of course not. That would be a pretty rude way to spend _Olaf’s first birthday._ ”

Olaf’s resulting delighted gasp is loud enough that Kai pokes his head into the dining room, to make sure no one’s fallen to the ground in pain. “For me?!” Olaf squeals.

“Yeah, buddy. Unless Elsa doesn’t _want_ to…” Anna can’t quite wipe the triumphant grin off her face. It’s a rotten way to win an argument, she knows, but—well. No one’s losing, really, when they throw a party if she wins. Right?

“Okay, okay,” Elsa says, pinching the bridge of her nose. “But a small party! Intimate!”

Anna can work with that.

* * *

Kristoff’s got to hand it to Anna—a _lot_ of people at this party seem genuinely interested in making sure Olaf is enjoying his birthday. For every townsperson who’s clearly here for the decadence or the free food, there’s two or three who make a point to converse with the snowman, or to let him play games with their kids. It may not be the quiet evening in Elsa’d been angling for, but it is significantly less pretentious than the summit had been.

Of course, the downside to finally throwing a ball in the great hall that’s intended for the common folk of Arendelle is that people _know_ him here. And they keep wanting to, like. Talk to him. He’s only barely escaped a twenty minute (twenty minute!) conversation with the Angstroms about the renovations they’re planning to make to their sitting room when old Mr. Falk catches Kristoff’s eye across the ballroom. Eager to avoid an endless chat about mealworms, or what fertilizer is best, Kristoff veers left—away from the refreshments table and towards Anna, where she’s teaching Olaf and the kids some sort of skip-rope rhyme.

“Do you want to dance?” he asks. He’s probably being rude interrupting like this, but desperate times…

Her eyes bug out—“Wait, me? You’re asking _me?”_ —then narrow suspiciously. She cocks her head to the side. “You? _You’re_ asking me?”

“Clock’s ticking, Princess,” he grumbles, wiggling his fingers in invitation, and she grabs his hand as though he’ll snatch it away if she waits one more second.

“Yes! Definitely yes,” she says, dragging him onto the ballroom floor.

The song is up-tempo, and it takes Kristoff a moment to figure out where his feet are supposed to be going. Anna is resplendent, though, flushed and laughing even as she trips over herself trying to fix his mistakes. Or—no, _he_ was supposed to go left then, not her. He’s sure of it.

“Since when are you Mr. Dance Pants?” she asks, crossing behind him and then taking his hand to catch up with the missed choreography.

He tries on a grin. “Trying to be a better boyfriend. Remember?”

“Sure, maybe,” she snorts, seeing right through him. “Or maybe you just wanted an excuse to get away from all these perfectly nice people wanting to make perfectly nice small talk with you.”

“It’s not ‘small’ once you pass the fifteen minute mark,” he grumbles, lifting her up, twisting, and putting her back down in time with the music. She stumbles more than usual finding her feet.

“You know, I think it’s all a front. This whole antisocial thing. I don’t buy it. So many people like you! You totally like them right back. Admit it.”

“Just how much wine have you had?” he asks, rolling his eyes.

_“None,_ ” she says, cagily.

Ah. Suddenly, the ruddy cheeks and sloppy dance moves make a lot more sense. “Okay, how much not-wine have you had?”

“I was playing Tap Out with Lars and Aleks and some of the guys,” she says, which still doesn’t answer his question, but that’s quite suddenly the least of his problems.

Kristoff trips, missing several beats in the dance. “You what?”

“It’s a drinking game! You—”

“I know the rules of Tap Out, Anna, I just…” What might they have said to her? How long was she with them? What if they told her—? “Ow!” Kristoff yelps, dragged out of his panic spiral by the press of Anna’s high heel into his toes as she accidentally steps on his foot.

“Oops! Sorry.”

“You are _drunk,_ ” he realizes, marveling. Should he be annoyed about that? He’s not really sure what the protocol is, here, but he finds he’s too relieved to scold her. A drunk Anna is probably less likely to remember whatever unsavory details the boys might have told her over ale.

She narrows her eyes at his word choice. “I held my own,” she sniffs, raising her chin in defiance.

Despite himself, he feels a smile pulling at his cheeks. “That means you lost.”

“I came in second.”

“There’s no second in Tap Out.”

_“Whatever._ It didn’t even work, anyway,” she grumbles, and he misses another step.

“What do you mean?”

“I was trying to get Aleks to tell me the story of when you got arrested, but he wouldn’t do it.”

There it is. Kristoff searches the room until he finds his friend, unsurprised to see Aleks has been keeping an eye on them. He’s barely suppressing his grin, which means their terrible dancing must be even more noticeable than Kristoff realized. He shoots Aleks a grateful look; Aleks gives a barely-there nod and then goes back to his conversation with the shorter Arneson brother.

Anna mistimes a turn and crashes into Kristoff’s chest; he takes her hand and pulls her away from the other dancers and back into the crowd. “Okay, maybe we’ll save the dancing for next time.”

Anna frowns, crestfallen. “There’s never a next time.”

He fails to turn his laugh into a cough. “If I know one thing about you, it’s that you’ll make sure there’s a next time,” he teases.

She hums in agreement, not denying it. “I _am_ persistent,” she allows lightly.

He guffaws. “Don’t I know it. That why you’re interrogating Aleks instead of just asking me whatever’s on your mind?”

“Pff. Like you’d tell me. It is _you_ we’re talking about, right? The guy I had to push and nag just for you to admit you wanted something I already knew you wanted?”

It takes Kristoff probably longer than it should to un-twist that verbal pretzel and realize she’s talking about their sex life; by the time he’s started blushing, she’s already deep into her rant:

“—not like I _like_ rooting around for gossip about you, but you’re like a—a—”

Kristoff does his best to hide his smile, waiting in rueful anticipation for her to decide what he’s like. “Yes?”

“—a pistachio! And your shell is barely open on one side, because you don’t want people to know what good stuff you’ve got in there, so I’ve got to pry and pry and use the shell of some _other_ pistachio to get through to you—”

“Wait, am I also this other pistachio, or is that you?”

“That’s not the—” Anna stomps a foot, frustrated. “You’re not listening. Don’t you understand what I’m trying to say?”

He opens his mouth to respond, but a tap on his shoulder interrupts his train of thought.

“Kristoff, I need you to pick me up!”

Kristoff turns around to find Olaf standing behind him, left arm held aloft in his right hand to get the height needed to reach Kristoff’s shoulder. It’s a sight so simultaneously adorable and grotesque he completely forgets what they were talking about. “What?”

“I’m telling everyone the story of my birth, but I’m not tall enough to be Marshmallow; I need you to pick me up. For the veritas.” Before Kristoff can answer, Olaf’s gasping, clutching his cheeks with his intact and displaced hands in horror. “That means it’s almost Marshmallow’s birthday, too! I hadn’t realized. We have to go up for a visit!”

“One thing at a time, maybe. Where am I lifting you?”

“Over here; c’mon!” Olaf says, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him over to where an expectant crowd of children is waiting; Olaf’s set up a kind of improvised amphitheater on the stairs.

“And why do I have to be the one to lift you?”

“You’re the only one tall enough! Otherwise my audience can’t understand the true stakes.”

Figuring playing along is the fastest way to be allowed to return to his evening, Kristoff lets Olaf position and articulate him like a doll: first hoisting Olaf high in the air so he can be Marshmallow, then imitating Marshmallow himself and chasing Olaf as Olaf plays himself, Kristoff, Anna, and Sven, then being ‘the cliff’ as Olaf repeatedly climbs up his back and then jumps down from his shoulder to show how far they all fell off the North Mountain. When Olaf then goes into an embarrassingly-accurate recreation of Kristoff putting his foot in his mouth over Anna’s whitening hair, Kristoff takes his leave, fleeing before he has to watch the next bit.

When he catches sight of Anna, she’s deep in conversation with her sister, a flute of champagne in her hand and an inscrutable look on her face.

* * *

“Come lay down with me,” Kristoff offers, unsurprised when Anna dances out of his grip instead of leaning into him.

Really, the fact that he’s gotten her as far as her bedroom should be seen as a victory. Even after their guests had left, convincing Anna to come upstairs and call it a night had taken everything short of bribery. Sleepy, morose, and puckish in turn, she’s resisted any suggestion to relax or take it easy. And he’s—annoyed, and endeared, and annoyed at how endeared he is right back.

“Gotta catch me, first,” she teases.

Easy enough. “Don’t play games you’ll lose,” he advises her, crossing the room in three easy strides and taking her up into his arms. “Settle down.”

He runs a finger down her forehead and nose, and she goes slightly cross-eyed and limp trying to watch him do it, blinking slowly. “Hey, that’s… that’s cheating,” she mumbles, voice hazy, and he strokes down her face again. Her brow crinkles in frustration under his fingertip. “Stoppit.”

“…Red?” he asks, uncertain whether or not he’s actually pissing her off. He’s not really used to drunk Anna.

“No, just. Rude,” she grumbles, pouting. Her expression then brightens. “Hey, that rhymes!”

What? “No, it doesn’t.”

“Well, okay, not _rhymes,_ but. The thing. The other thing.”

“Oh, the other thing,” he repeats indulgently, like he’s totally enlightened now. On the off chance that she’s completely lost track of the conversation, he tries again: “C’mon, lay down with me.”

“M’not tired.”

He gives her a saucy grin and tries a different tactic. “Since when do you have to be tired to lay down with me?”

“Mm, touché,” she allows, rocking onto her tiptoes in order to kiss him. He smiles into it against his better judgment, enjoying the way her arms drift up to wrap around his neck; the way she leans into him. It’s wild to think that they’re just a few hours out from the official one year mark of knowing each other—the impossible girl in the ridiculous dress who did nothing but get in his way now drowsy and affectionate in his arms. Unthinkable, still. “C’mon,” she goads, nipping at his bottom lip. “Kiss me like you mean it.”

_But you’re **drunk,**_ he mentally protests, sighing without meaning to. “How about we play a different game,” he says instead. “The King Commands.”

She narrows her eyes playfully. “Kristoff in charge, huh? Alright, you might as well get a turn. Everyone else has.” He doesn’t know what that means, but she leans in and interrupts before he can ask: “Do I get kisses if I win?”

He kisses the tip of her nose. “Let’s see how you do. The King commands you to drink a glass of water.”

“Okay, _Mom,”_ Anna grouses, but she nevertheless trots over to her side table and pours herself a glass, downing it in one go. “Good?”

“I guess. Unless you’re still thirsty?”

“I wasn’t even thirsty the first time. I’m just a good sport.”

“Uh huh.”

“And what does my liege require next?”

Despite himself, a tingle runs down his back at this role reversal—it’s strange to be on this side of their dynamic, for once. “The King commands you to get into your pajamas.”

“Will you help me?” she asks, lifting her hair and turning her back to him. He nods, stepping into her space to assist with the complicated hooks and ties of her dress. She moves heavily with the push and pull of his hands, dead on her feet, but turns in his arms when he’s gotten her down to her shift and starts working on his buttons in return.

“Pajamas,” he reminds her firmly, and she sticks her tongue out but lifts her shift over her head in a fluid motion before going to her dresser and digging around. The weight of the anniversary hits him all over again as he watches the slide of her shoulder blades against her back muscles as she rummages. They were the first part of her—or adult-her, anyway—he’d been acquainted with, her back to him as he’d entered Oaken’s. And now she’s casually nude in front of him, like it’s nothing.

She throws on a nightgown and returns to him, reaching for his shirt once more.

“Anna—hey, c’mon, we shouldn’t—”

“You didn’t say ‘The King commands,’” she reminds him softly. She meets his gaze—and though her cheeks are pink and her eyes a little glassy, the look in them is completely serious. “No funny business, I just…” She bites her lip, stretching her palm over his chest. “Unless the King commands me not to?”

He swallows and shakes his head, allowing her to strip him of everything but his drawers and undershirt with sloppy, gentle hands. She stops herself there without him asking her to, looking up at him for another order.

“Kristoff?”

“I…” He’s overwhelmed. Mustering a helpless smile, he taps at his own cheek in a silent request. She grins and rises onto her tiptoes, kissing him there before falling back to her heels with a click of her teeth and a frustrated groan, realizing she complied without his saying the code word.

“That was a rotten trick. I take that kiss back, stinker.”

He squeezes her hands in apology. “The King _requests_ that you come outside with him,” Kristoff says, nodding towards the balcony. “If her Highness is amenable.” She follows without a fuss, a look on her face he can’t quite read.

“Whoa,” Anna murmurs, bracing herself against the stone balustrade once they make it outside and she gets a sense of how high up they are. “Dizzy.”

“Yeah, I bet. You don’t normally…” He trails off, not sure how to broach the issue. Who is he to say she shouldn’t drink on Olaf’s birthday? “Do you want to talk about it?”

She shakes her head, then cradles it in her hands, looking at little green with regret at the lateral movement. He steps to stand next to her, looking out into the night.

The sky is a rich, star-speckled navy, the sun having only set a little while ago. A warm breezes dances over the serene fjord, bringing with it the scent of moss from the docks, the salt of the ocean, and the tulips dotting the hills. The lighthouse casts its beam with reassuring regularity over the white sails of harbored ships.

Arendelle. Home.

“It was like this last year. The night she ran,” Anna says quietly, surveying the reflection of the moon on the water. “Warm, like this. Until it wasn’t.” She laughs a little, but it sounds odd. Hollow. “I told Hans, actually, I remember—”

He reaches for her. “Sweetheart…”

She shrugs him off and points down to a spot on the grounds. “We were just there. In the garden. I told him how this was my favorite kind of weather—when it stays warm after sundown, even as the days get shorter again. Like the earth’s trying to give me just a _little_ bit more summer.” She hugs her own elbows, bitter. “He told me it was his favorite, too. That a few weeks after the solstice every year there’s a day when the sun sets just right over the Southern Isles so that, if you’re on a ship on the easternmost edge of the archipelago, you can see it touch every island’s shore as it goes down. He said he was missing it, being in Arendelle for the coronation, but that I was a sight so beautiful he really didn’t miss it at all. He said—he said he’d take me next year. Or. This year.” She scoffs, looking down at her feet. “I still don’t know if any of that is true. About the sun, I mean. Obviously the rest was just…” She shakes her head.

He has no idea what to say to that. “Is that why you…?”

“I didn’t mean to drink so much,” she admits miserably. “It’s just—I was looking at everyone, and thinking about how far we’ve come in a year. And I was chatting with the guys, and Aleks mentioned something about how lager is your favorite. And I thought, _I didn’t know that._ I didn’t know lager was your favorite. And I thought about how I could have made a list of Hans’ favorite everything, after one night of knowing him, and how sometimes it feels like I’m still getting to know you. And I love that, I love getting to know you, and I know he was tricking me anyway, but then it just got all tangled in my head, and… and if lager was _your_ favorite, then I guess…” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry. It’s stupid.”

He feels his chest constrict—not because of how wrong she is, but because she’s _right._ He trusts Anna more than he’s ever trusted anyone, and he’s still so careful about what he lets her know. It’s not… it’s nothing personal, he just… “It’s not stupid. But I’m not him.”

It’s just as well that his words are inadequate, because they fall on deaf ears—he can tell just by looking that Anna’s starting to spiral into a panic attack, chest heaving with shallow breaths.

“I know that, and I know you, and I _know_ I know you, but sometimes I look at you and I think of all these things I don’t know and—”

“Anna—”

“—and I can’t stop _dreaming_ about him, all the time—”

“I know, the nightmares, you told me—”

“But I _didn’t!_ I didn’t. I—” She swallows, trembling. “Oh, I. I don’t feel so good,” she says in a tiny voice, and that’s all the warning he gets before he’s grabbing for her as she heaves over the balcony railing, emptying her stomach.

“It’s okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you,” he says over and over, as he smooths her hair back from her face and lifts it away from her neck. “Let it out.”

“…I’m sorry,” she says again, when the spasms have mostly passed. He makes a mental note to make sure she drinks another glass of water.

“It’s been a weird night; it happens.”

“I should tell Kai. Someone’s gonna have to clean that up…”

“I’ll take care of it. Do you wanna go back inside?”

She shakes her head again where it’s still cradled on her arms, pulling her hair through his loose grip as she does so. “In a minute. Breeze is good.”

He rubs uselessly at her back, feeling pulled in about a million directions. He’s familiar with so many versions of Anna, but never this one. Where to even begin, telling her about all the things he’s still held back? How to trust it won’t change how she sees him, no matter how much he knows she’d try not to let it? What even would be the point of saying anything now, when the chances of her remembering any of this seem to be dwindling rapidly? “I love you,” he eventually settles on—a safe truth.

She snorts. “You picked a real prize.”

“Yeah. I did.”

Anna sniffles a little at that. “It’s just… I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy before. I think that’s what freaked me out. Like it’s a trap or something. That’s messed up, right?”

“Hey, you and me both. I feel like that all the time.”

She wipes at her cheeks and finally turns to look at him, blue eyes crystalline with tears. “You do?”

“Um, yeah. Kinda.”

“I hate that. We should talk about that.”

“We should. Maybe another night, though,” he reasons, gesturing vaguely at… everything. She blushes and nods.

After a few more minutes she agrees to head back inside, washing up and rinsing her mouth before finally, finally crawling into bed. She reaches for him, then; he shakes his head and stays on his feet, brushing her bangs back from her eyes.

“Shh. Head down and eyes closed, hellion.”

“If I do, will you stay?”

“I can’t tonight. Gotta talk to Kai, remember? But you need to get some sleep.”

She frowns, even as exhaustion clearly weighs her down. “Maybe I’ll just rest my eyes for a minute.”

“Thank you. Goodnight, Anna.”

“Mmhmm. G’nigh…” she mumbles, curling up into a ball and drifting off.

He stares at her a long time before he can bring himself to get dressed again and leave the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anna's going through it, but things will get better, I promise. Fun fact: "King's Command" is actually for real what they call "Simon Says" in Norway.
> 
> Chapter title from Paula Cole's "Me." And as ever, I hope you'll drop me a line if you enjoyed-- hearing from you makes the whole week brighter.
> 
> And just as a head's up: next week I'll likely be posting on Saturday night instead of Sunday morning, because I'll be out of the house all day starting early. Huzzah!


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